


Limerence: A Star Wars Love Story

by partialresonance



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Armitage Hux Needs A Hug, Armitage Hux apologizes for nothing, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, But suffering first, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Force Bond, Gingerpilot, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Armitage Hux, Hurt Poe Dameron, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nor should he, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Poe Dameron Needs A Hug, Post-TLJ, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Stranded, TRoS whomst, The Force Ships It, We believe in love and redemption and honeymoons, Wilderness Survival, flirtatious kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 104,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22532389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialresonance/pseuds/partialresonance
Summary: The hated General of an oppressive regime.A Resistance pilot haunted by his mistakes.When the two crash-land on an uninhabited moon, they are forced to rely on each other for survival and their hatred develops into a different sort of passion. But their isolation won’t last forever.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Armitage Hux
Comments: 558
Kudos: 509





	1. Chapter 1

#  Part One: Vergence

The Star Destroyer is relatively quiet.

The _Steadfast,_ flagship of the First Order, lounges above the gas giant Chulza, carefully threading the orbits of the hundreds of moons that ring the stately orange and rust-swirled behemoth.

They have been monitoring the development of several nascent rebellions in this system for some weeks now. Squadrons of stormtroopers and their support craft are deployed across multiple inhabited bodies and the crew on the bridge provides near-realtime feedback on their status to the officers that patrol on their raised walkways.

One General Armitage Hux stands alone above them all, peering out of the viewports at the endless expanse of black.

Hux draws on a cigarette, the smoke curling up and up until it finally peters out to nothing in the vastness of the ship’s interior. It is a testament to his state of mind that he allows himself this luxury, in full view of his subordinates. His free hand is behind his back, fist pressed into his spine and leather-clad fingers tightly curled to stop their shameful trembling.

Ren suspects him.

There’s nothing to suspect yet; not really. Hux has made no moves against him but the desire is there and Ren senses it, through that damnable wizard kriff they call the Force.

His _Supreme Leader._ The words curl around his thoughts like a slippery poison, like oil in water.

No one has ever deserved the title less than Ren. The petulant child of Rebel scum, with his Force-fueled tantrums, his quivering lip. Ren has never hidden his emotions well and Hux despises him for it. Just the memory of the scene on Crait makes his skin crawl.

_Pathetic_ , his mind chants, and as always the word holds the whisper of his father’s voice: Brendol’s particular Imperial cadence, endless magnitudes of disgust enfolded in the words like the ever-more-unfathomable dimensions contained in a singularity.

Hux refuses to be beaten by such a man. If Ren suspects him then he must adapt; he’s done so before. After so much time serving Snoke, Hux can feel when Ren pries into his mind. The urge to build walls is almost overwhelming but he knows those are just as damning as the truth.

So he doesn’t build walls. He builds _diversions_ : channels in his mind that deflect Ren’s attention, send him scurrying off on false paths laced with just enough truth for believability.

It’s exhausting. Hux hasn’t slept in what passes for days in the eternal twilight of the Star Destroyer’s shift rotations.

He doesn’t know how long he can keep this up, but he sees little other choice.

In the months following the Battle of Crait, rebellion has blossomed in nearly every sector of the galaxy. It’s a catch-fire, like a spark in a dry field, and the fleets have run ragged stamping them out.The _Steadfast_ is present in this system as a show of force and Hux feels the itch in his fingertips at having little else to do other than deploy his stormtroopers and light fighters and delegate their movements to lesser officers.

Because that’s _all_ he’s good for, apparently.

He, the Starkiller, has been reduced to an errand boy.

Ren has taken even the illusion of control from him, placing Allegiant General Enric Pryde above him in the chain of command. Of course it had to be _Pryde_ —a man who had known his father and Brendol’s wife, the woman who was only his mother on official documents that no one believes anyway.

Hux’s parentage is an ill-kept secret amongst even the common soldiers but Pryde is different. Pryde _knows_ him, saw him as a sniveling child cowering before his father. Had once taken him to the medbay to repair a broken arm after one of Brendol’s more enthusiastic ‘lessons’.

Being under Pryde’s heel is more than an insult. It’s a punishment worthy of Snoke’s sinister machinations but the worst part of it is that Hux isn’t even certain that Ren knows what he’s done.

Hux has never held any delusions about how much he means to Ren.

Intentional or not, every time Pryde pins him with that cold stare he is reminded of Brendol. He feels like a child again, helpless and pathetic and weak and he cannot stand for that. Has killed for that, before.

Adapt. He has to find a way to destroy Ren.

Maybe the girl will do it for him.

Hux allows himself to smirk at the idea, lips curling around the cigarette butt. Of course, he can’t rely on that possibility—can’t sit idly by hoping that Ren will destroy himself in his attempt to find her and—kill her? Sway her to his cause and wed her? Hux doesn’t know the man’s particular intentions and doesn’t care.

All he knows is that Ren makes stupid decisions when it comes to the girl and perhaps that is something that Hux can use.

He has considered it. Using his technological prowess to mask his communications, contact the Resistance, give them clues as to Ren’s whereabouts, his intentions. He hasn’t gone through with it yet but the possibility is there and Hux finds himself swaying towards it like a starving man grasping at a piece of ripe fruit.

It’s made only sweeter by the ghost of his father snarling in the back of his mind.

_Treason! Filthy, worthless traitor! Coward!_

_Yes, father,_ Hux thinks, _You knew me so well, all along._

He finishes the cigarette and tucks the burnt filter neatly into his pocket. He could simply flick it to the floor and let a droid clean it up but Hux has always been more fastidious than that.

(And he knows why, but refuses to acknowledge the memory, because there must be _something_ he can claim as his own. This can’t be Brendol’s doing, like everything else—but deep down, he knows it is.

Deny. Divert. Adapt.)

Hux abruptly turns and leaves the bridge. Both hands are clasped behind his back, the trim of his greatcoat hanging stiff around his calves. His boots are black mirrors reflecting the black mirrors of the floors.

There is something about the aesthetic of the First Order that has always been coldly comforting to Hux.

It is empty. Clean. Sharp.

It is efficient: nothing gone to waste, no frivolities or distractions.

It is home. The only place he has ever belonged, the only cause he has ever known.

His strides are a precise snapping rhythm as he enters the main corridor feeding off of the bridge, footsteps echoing sharply against the smooth surfaces of the Star Destroyer. The mild stimulant of the cigarette is thrumming in his veins, magnified by the hunger he feels gnawing at his stomach.

He hasn’t eaten properly in days but he doesn’t go to the mess. He makes directly for his quarters, expecting to encounter no resistance on the way. He knows the shift rotations of all of the high-ranking officers onboard and anyone even remotely worth his time—including himself—should be asleep.

Though he knows Ren holds to a similarly frayed schedule, so there is always the possibility that he is awake, too, stalking the halls.

Hux is stretched thin. He knows this feeling but he has only ever fought it, pushed himself until he snaps. He knows no other way. He feels his thoughts veering in a dangerous direction, wonders if that’s the brush of Ren’s mind against his own—

Hux is only a few hundred feet from his quarters when he feels the barrel of a blaster pressing into his lower back, and a voice in his ear.

“Heya, Hugs. Long time no see.”


	2. Chapter 2

Poe’s palms are sweating beneath his gloves.

_This is fine. This is fine._

He ducks into a narrow service alcove, barely big enough to conceal him as a trio of stormtroopers pass him by. He waits until they’ve rounded the next corner before he lets himself breathe.

Something that Han once said, relayed to him by Finn in the retelling of the attack on Starkiller Base, leaps unbidden to his mind:

_“The longer we’re here the less luck we’re gonna have.”_

Poe wonders if his luck has already run out.

His hand tightens around the data chip and his jaw sets in a firm line of resolve.

He remembers the day Rose revealed her secret side-project to the leadership of the Resistance.

Honestly, most of it was techno-mumbo-jumbo that went right over his head. In one ear and out the other, the only thing to stick was the implication which hit him so hard he’d slumped back in his chair.

Knowing, in advance, which systems the First Order was going to target next in their relentless campaign of terror.

The Resistance was spread thin after the Battle of Crait. Poe tries not to think about why. They can’t defend every system that rebels against the First Order. They need to know where to concentrate their dwindling resources and manpower, and the _Steadfast_ —flagship of that hated organization—holds the information.

A special data panel inside a special room in a secret part of the ship that Rose—brilliant, under-utilized, underestimated Rose—had discovered, through a reworking of the hacking technology that she surreptitiously learned from (stole from?) DJ. Added to her own prior knowledge of where all of the different systems of a Star Destroyer are contained, it formed a formidable weapon.

Poe still smiles every time he thinks of it.

Though his smile is fleeting, now. Because he _has_ it, the information they so desperately need, but he has no idea how he’s going to get off of this ship and furthermore, the only people from the Resistance who even know he’s here are a couple of low-level tech guys who swore they’d keep his mission secret.

He even had to leave BB8 behind.

What was he going to tell them? As soon as Rose had revealed the information, Leia had dismissed the plan as too risky. She refused to sacrifice any of her people on a suicide mission to sneak aboard the Star Destroyer and Poe, knowing where that conversation was going to go, had kept his mouth shut this time.

Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?

And at least, unlike his decision to attack the dreadnought above D’Qar, this time he is only risking himself.

Maybe he wanted this, he thinks as he slips out from the alcove and jogs down the corridor, heart pounding in his chest and wide eyes sweeping back and forth. Guilt has been gnawing at his insides for months now—since before Crait. Since losing the bombing squadron, losing all of those people. Rose’s sister. The mutiny against Holdo.

The look of disappointment in Leia’s eyes, both times.

He was promoted again, for some reason—but Poe doesn’t think he ever really believed it. That he was supposed to be second in command to Leia, that he would be trusted to do what was best for the Resistance as a whole ever again.

It hits him as he skirts around a corner at a junction between corridors: he’s doing nothing new. He’s at it again.

His hero complex is in full swing.

_Imagine the look on everyone’s faces when I show up with the goods!_

Poe is briefly disgusted with himself. His steps slow until he is looking around at this big, confusing maze of a ship and realizing that he is out of options. He is out of plans, out of brilliant ideas, out of resources. And alone.

Stupid. He was so _stupid_ to come here.

He clenches his fists. His fingers itch for the controls of his X-wing, the trigger and three-dimensional steering mechanism. So simple. Flying is so _simple_. This leadership kriff is anything but.

And sneaking around like this? Espionage and burglary? Well, it is just as thrilling as lighting up a fleet of TIE fighters but it’s uniquely terrifying because it’s not in his wheelhouse and he doesn’t even have any friends here to back him up. He has no one, not Finn or Rose or Leia or anyone from his old squad, back when he was just another pilot.

By the time he hears the footsteps through his panic, he’s almost too late.

The sharp _smack_ of First Order boots against cold metal finally registers in his mind and Poe sucks in a breath, taking two quick steps back and slipping around a corner so his back is pressed against the wall at an angle to whoever is approaching.

He closes his eyes, focusing on drawing in deep breaths as his fraying nerves send his heart rate skyrocketing. He has a sudden thought that chills him to the bone.

What if it’s Kylo Ren?

_Kriff_ , Poe thinks. _Kriff kriff kriff I didn’t think of that._

Ren can take anything he wants from Poe’s mind—including the location of the remnants of the Resistance. Their new base after evacuating from D’Qar and Crait.

Poe wants to hit himself. No one except Leia is privy to more information on the Resistance’s current disposition. Locations, numbers, what they plan to do next—all sitting in Poe’s mind at that very moment, just waiting for Leia’s corrupted son to take from him by force.

Very _painful_ force, as he remembers.

Poe opens his eyes, and goes nearly boneless with relief.

It’s not Ren.

_You’re lookin’ a little rough these days, Hugs_ , he can’t help but think, even as his feet are moving him forward of their own accord.

Feet and hands, he thinks deliriously as he draws his blaster. That’s all he really is when it comes right down to it. Feet and hands and a _great_ head of hair.

Poe doesn’t know quite what he’s after even as he presses the blaster to the other man’s back, feeling him stiffen even through that great heavy coat. Hux freezes, his last footsteps echoing ominously while his shoulders straighten, his neck a tense column of white. Poe is close enough that he swears he sees the red-haired man’s hackles raise when he greets him.

“Heya, Hugs. Long time no see.”

There is no response. Poe presses the blaster insistently forward.

“Now now, General, I was very polite. What, you don’t have any warm greetings for your old pal?”

“What do you want, Dameron?” Hux’s voice is very low. Poe thinks he can hear one of the man’s knuckles crack. “I’m a very busy man.”

“Right, right.” Poe’s tone is distracted and distant as he nudges Hux forward, trying to guide the man into the adjoining corridor and looking surreptitiously around. Thankfully there is no one else in sight, for the moment. “Killing planets, oppressing people, I get it. Big day, probably looking forward to a nice nap in your fancy quarters. Sorry to burst your bubble.”

Hux is silent but Poe thinks he can hear him sneer.

“I need a way off this ship.” Poe’s hand tightens around the blaster handle. He wonders if Hux knows that he has no intention of using it, except in the extremes of self-defense. Hopefully it won’t come to that. “And you’re my ticket out.”

“Is that so?” Hux’s drawl is more pronounced, slower than usual. He’s stalling—probably weighing his own options. Poe doesn’t think he’s in much danger from the other man, though. The worst he could do is call for help, right? And if he does that then Poe will just—well, he’s not really great with plans. He’ll improvise, like he’s doing now.

“Yep,” Poe says jauntily. He wiggles the blaster. “You get me on a transport out of here and we’ll treat you real nice. You’ll love it at base. Good food. Nice people. No dress code.” He almost winks before remembering that Hux can’t see his face.

“Am I to assume the Resistance is nearby?”

“Ah ah ah,” Poe chides him. “That would be telling, and I’m the one with the blaster here.”

“So it would seem.”

Poe sighs. In one swift move he rounds on Hux, moving to his front and pushing on his shoulder with the blaster digging in to his chest just above his heart.

Poe is tired of this. He wants to go home.

“Listen. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

“And what would be the hard way?” Hux tilts his head, looking genuinely curious, and Poe knows that he’s taunting him. He moves the blaster to the space between Hux’s neck and jaw, pressing hard enough to tilt the other man’s head back. His skin is very pale but Poe assumes that’s just typical for his pasty ass.

Up close like this, though, Poe can see that his initial impression was correct. Hux has dark circles under his eyes, wrinkles that weren’t there before. A haunted look in the way he darts his gaze left and right, seemingly focused on some other threat than the one currently pressing against his pulse point and Poe wonders what _that_ is about.

Something shifts in Hux’s eyes. Poe tells himself that it’s just the added pressure of the blaster directly against his throat but deep down he wonders.

“Fine,” Hux says haughtily. “I can get you on a transport.”

“Us,” Poe corrects, because he’s not leaving Hux behind just so Poe can get shot out of the sky as soon as he leaves the hangar.

“Us. Certainly. Right this way.”

Hux nods in the direction over Poe’s shoulder and Poe looks at him warily for a beat before relenting, stepping back and letting the general take the lead. And suddenly Hux is walking away, his stride quicker than Poe had expected, and Poe is jogging to keep up with him.

He bites his lower lip. He has no idea what to do with the blaster, what to do if someone sees him trailing after Hux like this.

Hux suddenly halts and Poe brings the blaster up, exhaustion making his suspicion spike as Hux punches a code into a panel that Poe hadn’t even noticed, can’t even distinguish from the rest of the wall, and suddenly an array of stormtrooper armor is pushing its way into the corridor on a shallow pneumatic platform.

“Put one on,” Hux says, waving a careless hand. “You’ll not get into the hangar unseen, after all. A disguise is necessary.”

“I am in a disguise.” Poe looks down at himself for emphasis, gesturing to the beat-up old First Order officer’s uniform left over from Rose and Finn’s mission with DJ. It’s a bit stained and ragged, sure, and only almost sort of fits, but—

“That…is not a disguise.”

Poe looks at him for a beat. Suddenly this all feels a bit too easy, like Hux is actively working with him instead of grudgingly moving along at the end of his blaster like he’d expected. He tilts his head as if to ask _what’s your game?_

But he doesn’t have time for that, he decides.

“I would hurry,” Hux says idly, as if confirming Poe’s thoughts. “Wouldn’t want a patrol to chance by and see you half-dressed.” His lip curls in something between amusement and contempt.

Poe agrees—albeit grudgingly—so he doesn’t argue. He even quirks a smile.

Was that a joke? Did Hugs just make an actual _joke?_ Poe chooses to believe he did. Jokes are very therapeutic for him and this is a tense enough situation as it is.

He rushes to don one of the sets of armor. It doesn’t fit—it’s all too long, made for someone much taller than him but it’ll do in a pinch. As he slides the helmet into place he experiences a brief flash of fear that Hux will take the opportunity to deck him or simply run.

But even after fumbling with the controls and booting up the display, Hux is still standing before him at parade rest, waiting patiently.

And just like that Poe is, again, following on Hux’s heels like a dog trailing after its master. He supposes Hux is used to having people follow him like this but Poe just thinks it’s weird. He’s unnerved by Hux’s silence, his calm energy. Everything he knows about the General points to a man constantly at the edge of spitting fury—someone more likely to lash out than anything.

Not that he knows the guy _that_ well, of course.

“So aren’t ya gonna ask why I’m here?” His voice is tinny and unrecognizable, transmitted through the helmet’s speaker. Poe winces as he realizes he can’t exactly whisper with the thing on—the helmet controls his volume.

“Shut up,” Hux says without looking at him, or breaking his stride.

Poe frowns, and makes a childish face behind the helmet.

They’ve reached a small service door leading to the hangar—Poe can see the vast internal space through viewports in the wall, its daunting scale emphasized by the rows of TIE fighters and other transports receding into the hazy distance—and Hux reaches for the keypad. Poe’s eye is drawn to the stark white of his wrist against his black glove.

His eyes are still there when he realizes that Hux has paused. Poe darts his gaze back up to Hux’s face, the stormtrooper helmet only moving fractionally as he does, and he sees that Hux is looking at him with an expression that Poe can only call strange.

“We are going to go through this door and enter the transport on the third file to the left, seventh rank.” His gaze is very steady and intense and Poe knows there’s something more to this interaction, something he is missing. He swallows. “I am granting you access to the hangar and boarding the shuttle with you because if I do not you will use that blaster on me. Is this correct?”

“I, uh…yeah.” He says it more because he can sense that it is expected, even required of him, than because it is immediately true in that moment.

“So be it.” Hux presses a final button decisively with his thumb and the door hums quietly as it slides open.

Hux enters the hangar, and Poe follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I headcanon that Poe calls Hux 'Hugs' both in his mind and aloud mostly as a way to take him down a notch. It's not a term of affection at this point, though it isn't meant to be mean-spirited, either. It's Poe's way of defusing some of the power imbalance he senses between himself and the guy who destroyed the Hosnian system. As things progress it will eventually become a term of endearment but at this point it's not.
> 
> I hope this plot isn't too ridiculous for you all. I think it's pretty obvious that I'm engineering things so that I get my flirtatious kidnapping and the two of them stranded together, which was the goal of this fic from the beginning. But I'm hoping that the characters react true to the situation and that it doesn't come off as OOC or overtly ridiculous. Yes, maybe Poe should've been discovered long ago and maybe Hux should've just tricked him and turned him in immediately--I'm hoping I came up with good enough reasons why that didn't happen. (You'll learn more about Hux's motivations in the next chapter, which I have mostly written.)
> 
> As for how Poe managed to get aboard the Star Destroyer in the first place, I'm leaving that up to your imagination. It's not important for the story, and suffice it to say that after seeing TRoS I don't feel too pressured to come up with airtight plots while writing in the Star Wars universe. :)
> 
> Finally, the POV will continue to alternate for the next few chapters and I hope it's not too boring to read some of the same events from a different perspective. I've tried not to be repetitive and to keep the action moving but in some cases I couldn't resist writing the same thing from both of their perspectives since they're such different people. It was a fun exercise and fun to write, hopefully it was fun to read as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not meant to reflect an authorial opinion on the character of Kylo Ren. While I personally believe Ben Solo is a sympathetic character, this chapter is written from Hux's perspective, and he has no reason to see Kylo Ren in that light at this point.
> 
> Edit: I changed the name of the planet from Scavif to Chulza. As mentioned in the note at the end of this chapter, I used a name generator to come up with Scavif, and having never seen Rogue One I had no idea that it was so similar to an important location in canon.
> 
> Also, my asciimoji add-on deleted an entire paragraph and replaced it with an emoji, so that has been added back in.
> 
> I'm clearly surrounded by enemies. Thank Force for my lovely readers.

_Kriffing Rebel scum. How the fuck did you get onto my ship?_

Heads are going to roll for this. Hux already has a list in mind.

An uncomfortable itch has begun between his shoulder blades, surging over his skin in response to the touch of the weapon, the presence of an enemy at his back. He runs through mental exercises to maintain his outward calm.

On more than one occasion on their way through the ship Hux considers sinking his blade into Dameron—especially whenever the pilot pokes him with that damned blaster. His skin is _crawling_ from the contact, even through all his layers of clothes, and he wants to beat the other man senseless for being the cause of it.

Still, something makes him reconsider, and instead of leading Dameron right into a waiting nest of stormtroopers he takes them through the less frequently used corridors, avoiding the areas of active patrol.

If he is considering using the Resistance to bring down Kylo Ren, what better way to do so than to allow himself to be captured?

It would be a risky move but so is staying aboard the _Steadfast_ with Ren prowling through his mind and doling out Force-punishments left and right. Hux remembers how long it took for the bruises from Crait to fade, and he’s had more additions since.

Really, by now he should have learned when to keep his mouth shut around Ren but increasingly it feels like it doesn’t matter anyway since the man can see his thoughts. Hux still can’t help but needle him at times. He pays for it.

Hux isn’t fully happy with the plan to use this development as an excuse for defection—this is all happening rather quickly and Hux likes to be thorough about this sort of thing.

And there’s a serious problem in that he doesn’t _really_ want to defect—he wants to take his rightful place as Supreme Leader, he wants to save the First Order once and for all from the twisted manipulations of Force users like Snoke and Ren but he can’t let Ren know that so he can’t _think_ that. But of course, thinking about not thinking about it is, well, thinking about it, so—

Hux feels a headache developing.

At the very least he is keeping his options open. He could dispatch of Dameron right here in the corridor and the thought gives him a certain amount of pleasure. But something is still telling him that this is a rare opportunity and not to waste it on impulsive actions.

Hux’s violence is different from his father’s, from Snoke’s or even Ren’s. There is nothing impulsive about it. He prefers to be…meticulous.

So no, he won’t slit Dameron’s throat. Not while the man could still be useful to him. Instead he’ll smirk as he watches the pilot struggle into the ill-fitting stormtrooper armor, thinking of all the ways that he is vulnerable in this moment, and feeling a rush of power in his own restraint.

Hux could kill him. He doesn’t. And that is _thrilling._

Hux is terribly amused as he leads the way to the hangar. Dameron is so hopelessly lost. It’s pathetic. He seems to have forgotten he has a blaster in his hands. It’s no longer touching Hux’s back and that makes him feel more relaxed, more in control.

His amusement evaporates as they reach the hangar door and he feels the distinctive brush of Ren’s Force probe against his mind.

Fear coils in his belly and slides oil-smooth down his spine. His eyes fixate on the keypad for too long. He can feel the quality of Ren’s attention shift, knows that things are about to go very, very wrong for him if he doesn’t act quickly.

So he turns to the pilot and forces the man to act like the kidnapper he so obviously fancies himself to be.

He leads Dameron through his intentions—the shuttle, the blaster. The whole time the idiot is just _standing_ there looking less than threatening in that stormtrooper armor that he doesn’t know how to move in, the blaster basically limp in his hand and Hux holds back a sneer at how incompetent the fool is.

The First Order’s intelligence must have been wrong—there’s simply no way that General Organa would promote this moron so far beyond his station.

(But he can’t think about that, no. Dameron is a threat. Hux fears for his life. He will do whatever the Resistance pilot says…)

Hux feels beads of sweat on his brow. It would be really, _really_ helpful if Dameron seemed half as committed to this plan as Hux already is.

He hopes that Ren is satisfied with what he finds in Hux’s mind. Hux can’t keep this up for long and he feels a blaze of hatred at the fact that something that should be inviolate—his kriffing _mind_ —is so easily pilfered by that thrice-damned supposed leader of his.

He swiftly directs his anger at Dameron instead of Ren. It’s easy. There is a lot to be angry about when it comes to the pilot. From his woeful inability to present any sort of real threat to Hux, to his utter incompetence at allowing whatever mission he is on to devolve so thoroughly into shambles as to require this desperate bid to salvage it, to the audacity of touching Hux even through the mediating material of a blaster barrel and several layers of clothing, to the smug, cocky way he’d taken Hux’s mother’s name in vain.

_“Tell him Leia has an urgent message for him…about his mother.”_

_You’ll die for that, Dameron._

The mental diversion works so completely that Hux himself forgets that it was a diversion to begin with.

As they enter the hangar, Hux is counting down the seconds before Ren sends someone to intercept them. But soon the shuttle is in sight and the only other souls whose paths they cross are routine maintenance workers and low-level technicians who keep their heads down because whatever the General is up to at any particular moment is far above their pay grade.

Hux is nervous. He doesn’t like being nervous.

Is Ren letting him leave? Had Hux imagined the Force probe all along and Ren is actually asleep, harmlessly drooling onto his pillow right now? Somehow, that seems unlikely.

Hux realizes he is breathing quickly, and goes through the mental exercises again.

If Ren is letting him escape then that is decidedly _not good._ It means he needs to change his plan, _again._ If Ren saw through Hux’s charade and knows that Hux is letting himself be captured then that means that Hux’s life has never been in more danger than it is in this precise moment.

So no defection. No going to the Resistance. He’ll get Dameron on the shuttle and overpower him there. Take him in for questioning. Do his duty to the First Order.

Hux blows out a quiet breath of relief as something in his chest loosens. Yes, this is easier, this is better. He’s not a traitor. He never has been. His father was wrong.

He sweeps into the shuttle with the pilot hot on his heels. Feeling as if he is only distantly connected to his own body and moving on autopilot, Hux closes the ramp, shutting them in to the small space.

Dameron immediately removes the stormtrooper helmet as if he can’t stand to spend another second inside of it. Hux stares at him, subtly flexing the arm that holds his sheathed blade, and reflects that killing him now would probably be kinder than letting him go to an interrogation cell to await Ren’s mistreatment.

Then he wonders why he would care about being kind to this man. He doesn’t.

He also doesn’t know how to interpret the look Dameron is giving him now. He decides that it’s fear. It would make sense, given the situation.

“Why so nervous, Dameron?” Hux can’t help but sneer, taking the time to taunt him despite the pinched timeline of their situation. “Isn’t your escape going according to plan?”

It isn’t bad, Hux thinks, as far as escape plans go. Maybe even worthy of Hux reconsidering the ‘incompetent’ label he’d slapped on Dameron earlier. Kidnap an officer senior enough to be able to bypass the protocols for launching a shuttle. Someone Dameron thinks is so important that the First Order wouldn’t dare attack the shuttle with them onboard, should their departure be detected. It’s a bit messy and it’s not going to work but it’s not a bad plan, not at all—

Dameron gives him a look, and Hux blinks.

“You did _plan_ this, didn’t you?”

More silence.

“You didn’t have a plan.” Hux says it flatly. Dameron nods, and shrugs, and shakes his head all at once.

Hux rolls his eyes so hard he briefly feels his soul leaving his body. His hand spasms as he leans forward a bit, as if he wants to say more, but manages to bite back any further remarks with a roll of his shoulders.

It’s not like he cares whether Dameron makes it out of this alive but kriff, you’d think _Dameron_ would.

“And what, pray tell, was so important that you’d risk your life sneaking onto my ship, yet not worth the bother of formulating an actual _plan_ to successfully execute the mission? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, considering the general incompetence of the Resistance.”

“Incompetence?” Dameron snorts, running a hand through his hair. The thick black curls spring back from being tamped down by the helmet. “We’re winning the war, Hugs.”

Hux’s lip curls just as much at the disrespect he interprets in the bastardization of his name as at the blatant lie. The Resistance was decimated after the Battle of Crait. Everyone knows this. It must be why Dameron was so desperate as to hatch a half-cocked plan like this one.

“Now, anything you need to do before I get us in the air?” Dameron moves to the pilot’s seat as if drawn there by a magnet, waving a hand at the control panel. “Some kinda fancy passwords or something?”

Hux moves with him, standing within striking distance of his blade as he regards the pilot, the controls, and waits for the pieces to fit together.

None of this feels right.

If Ren had indeed read his mind and saw what he’d truly intended, he would have intercepted Hux by now. He wouldn’t have risked them escaping, would he? The shuttle has hyperdrive capabilities, as do all of their transports. But if he—

No. Hux can’t think about what Ren may or may not have seen, what he may or may not be doing. After all this time working with him, Ren is still an unknown. Hux can’t reliably predict his movements any more than he can convince Millicent to come out from under the bed if she really has her mind set on disobedience.

Hux has to think of what is best for the First Order.

There is an opportunity here; he just hasn’t seen it until now.

Dameron knows where the Resistance base is. Where their leadership is, where that girl and Ren’s mother are.

This is information that Ren could try to take from Dameron’s mind but Hux has seen what happens when someone willing to die for their cause comes up against Ren’s Force probes.

Nose bleeds, typically. And death.

He wonders if Dameron is capable of it. If he’s strong enough to withhold that information until the effort to drag it from his mind kills him. Despite the foolishness of his actions, the idiocy of what Hux has heard referred to as his ‘prank call’, Dameron strikes him suddenly as a man not to be underestimated.

He is an unknown. Like Ren.

And quite aside from that possibility is the desire for Hux, himself, to be the one who discovers this information. To keep it from Ren, as long as he can. It would be an irresistible advantage over the Supreme Leader, something Hux could use to sway the High Command to his side.

It could split the First Order. Or it could unite them all against a man so obsessed with his own heritage, his own grudges and personal quests that he refuses to do what is right for the organization as a whole. Hux—desperate, and feeling the press of time and mortality at his back, and resentful of his current position under Ren’s heel—is willing to take the risk.

And what if Hux captures that girl that Ren thinks is important enough to chase across the galaxy? What if he captures Ren’s _mother?_

The temptation is too great. Hux buckles to it like a brittle tree in a storm wind.

“It’s not air,” Hux says distantly, as he leans around the co-pilot’s chair with unfocused eyes to key in the override sequence. The shuttle is now unlocked and quiescent, awaiting nothing more than a pilot to steer it in any direction he desires.

Directly back to the Resistance base, Hux is willing to wager. Dameron has that sort of linear, point-and-shoot rationality.

“What?”

“You won’t be getting us into the air. An archaic expression. Inaccurate to the situation at hand.”

“I know,” Dameron laughs. _Laughs._ As he moves towards the pilot’s seat he comes too close to Hux and Hux takes a generous step to the side, nose wrinkling.

He has never liked these little transports. No personal space to speak of.

Dameron rolls his eyes, and takes his seat. He instantly looks more at ease with his hands fitting over the controls, even though he’s still in that stormtrooper armor that he wears like an uncomfortable second skin.

“You plan on sitting down for this? It’s not exactly a short trip and things might get a little bumpy.” He’s looking at the controls, not Hux, when he speaks, hands moving rapidly now as he flips switches and the shuttle hums to life. When Hux doesn’t move Dameron finally turns his head, his gaze flicking over Hux from head to toe and back up again.

“Do I need to put you in restraints?” He lifts an eyebrow and flashes a grin, which Hux has no idea what to make of. “I’d rather not, since I’m a little busy here, but I’d also rather you didn’t stick me with whatever you’ve got smuggled up that sleeve.”

Hux huffs out an offended breath. He hadn’t known he’d made it so obvious.

“No,” he snaps, finally sitting in the co-pilot chair. “No restrains are necessary, Dameron.” The shuttle is already lifting into the air—yes, the _air_ , just here in the hangar though, the pilot was still wrong in the grand scheme of things—and Hux lies, “I am fully at your mercy, oh mighty general of the Resistance.” His words drip with venom.

Dameron smirks at him and the shuttle jerks forward.

Hux betrays himself by jolting and gripping the sides of his chair.

The pilot chuckles and turns his attention back to flying as they speed out of the hangar. Hux knows that if he looks out the viewport he will see the ranks of small transports and light fighters zooming past beneath them but he keeps his gaze anchored on the comfortingly dimensionless expanse of black space ahead of them.

“Afraid of flying?”

“I fear nothing but the length of time I am expected to endure your company!” Hux snaps, pumping the words full of all the vitriol he possesses. “Stop laughing!”

Shoulders still shaking in mirth, Dameron angles the craft and suddenly Chulza looms large in the viewport ahead, swooping in on a curve from the upper righthand corner. A smaller body—one of its hundreds of moons, surface white and cracked and gleaming—hangs off of it like a pearl. The abrupt orientation causes Hux’s head to spin and he sways unsteadily in his seat before getting himself under control, blinking hard a few times.

He remembers past reprimands for showing weakness. Disgust at a Commandant’s son who can’t comport himself with dignity in a transport vessel. Sharp blows and even sharper words that lingered in his mind far longer than the bruises on his skin. Memories that should have faded into the mists of time but instead rear up with a knife-edge clarity that demand his attention.

Dameron reaches for a control on Hux’s side of the cockpit and Hux freezes, holding himself in a brittly tense posture to keep from flinching away as anger floods his chest at this invasion of his personal space.

They are hardly even clear of the Star Destroyer, Dameron only just beginning what Hux assumes is the hyperdrive jump sequence, when he feels a familiar dark presence in his mind.

_So you finally decided to betray me, General._

Hux snaps to attention, eyes widening. A tremor starts at the base of his spine.

“Supreme Leader!” He rocks forward, hands gripping the edges of the control panel as he looks wildly out of the forward viewport.

“Uh—Hugs…?”

Hux ignores him. He doesn’t have time for Dameron right now. They are both about to die.

“This is not what it seems! I—”

How much does Ren know? Hux has gone through so many plans in such a short period of time he is no longer certain which has been the most present in his mind for Force-reading. In any case, now, with his survival at stake, he thinks on the one beneficial to both himself and Ren and believes with his whole heart that it is his only option.

Trembling, his gloved hands balled into tight fists pressed against the control panel, Hux does the only thing he can do. He submits.

_Dameron will show us where the girl is hiding! Their princess! Their base! I know what this means to you. I will go, I’ll find it and I’ll return, I’ll trick him, he’s stupid, he thinks I’m weak—_

_(They all do. You do. You’re all wrong, I’ll show you—)_

He shakes his head like some great animal trying to dislodge a biting fly.

_Don’t try to deny it, Hux. I know your intentions. I have seen them in your mind._

“REN!” Hux shouts into the shuttle that is empty but for himself and Dameron. Terror grips him and his head is hanging as he concentrates, tries to say the words with his mind as much as his voice, breath coming ragged. “I am loyal to you and to the First Order! Listen to me!”

_Goodbye, General Hux._

“ _NO_ , wait! I—”

A concussive force throws Hux forward, pain exploding in his leg as he is bent over the control panel and his head strikes the viewport.

There is sound and light and then there is nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have read this far, thank you.
> 
> I realize this chapter might be a bit confusing as it's meant to reflect the difficulty Hux faces working with Force-users like Kylo Ren. He is constantly scheming, but his schemes are always doubling back on themselves. He can barely think straight and it's all because he knows his thoughts are being watched (or suspects they are at any given moment without having any way to verify it until it's too late). He is very much coming apart under the pressure.
> 
> Also, in order to avoid any glaring inconsistencies with a canon universe I'm not all that familiar with yet, I made up a planet and drew the name 'Scavif' from an online name generator. Imagine my chagrin when I was browsing Wookiepedia and saw that there is a planet in the canon materials named Scarif. I suppose the name generator was a bit too accurate. I'm considering editing it so don't be surprised if the planet's name changes.
> 
> Updates will probably take longer from here on out. These first chapters just demanded to be written. There will be three parts, by the way. The story is fully plotted out on a grand scale but not in detail, so I don't know how many chapters I'll have yet. I'm very grateful for those who are sticking around to read it. This story and these characters are important to me and I'm happy to deliver content to likeminded folks. :)


	4. Chapter 4

Seeing abject terror on General Hux’s face would remain one of the most chilling moments of Poe’s life.

The guy is so uptight and disciplined, so smug and arrogant, so certain of his place in the galaxy, that seeing him with that expression of helpless horror is enough to shake Poe down to his very core.

It’s worse than seeing a Star Destroyer looming ahead of him, worse than being greeted by a squadron of TIE fighters. He doesn’t even know who the enemy is, where the danger is coming from. At first Poe thinks Hux has gone insane as he begins to plead with a man who isn’t there. It takes him too long to realize what is happening.

Poe’s hands fly over the controls, but even as he prepares the shuttle to jump to hyperspace he can’t really believe they are in danger. Kylo Ren wouldn’t shoot down one of his own _generals_ , would he?

As Hux’s pleas turn to screams, Poe finally understands. He grabs the lever and the muscles in his arm are tensed to pull it back to engage the hyperdrive, neurons already having fired the command, but in the split second before his body can obey they are hit.

Now, they tumble through space, a spiral of thick smoke trailing in their wake.

Poe is aware of little else other than the controls beneath his hands, the alarms blaring in the cockpit, the way the shuttle twists and veers as it hits the atmosphere of one of Chulza’s moons. Hux is crumpled in a heap on the floor. The general hadn’t had the forethought to strap himself in to the seat—or maybe he had been too nervous about being restrained in such close proximity to Poe.

Poe grimaces as the moon’s broad, curving surface swells in the viewport. The shuttle begins shaking violently—the stabilizers must be out. Poe coaxes at the controls, finds that at least half the systems are unresponsive.

It’s going to be a rough landing.

He watches with gritted teeth as the ground comes up too fast and at the last second an instinctive shout escapes him. Impact jars him into an unknowing, unfeeling wash of grey.

It’s only seconds or moments later when first sound and then light swims through his mind, his senses coming back on line in fits and starts.

He groans, and automatically lifts a hand to release himself from the restraints holding him in his seat. He coughs; smoke is filling the cockpit and he waves a hand uselessly to try to clear the air in front of him.

He doesn’t waste time taking stock of any possible injuries. His entire body is sore but so far he doesn’t feel any bright bolts of pain that indicate broken bones or puncture wounds and that’s good enough for him.

Poe blinks, tries to see past the smoke and focus his vision despite the ringing in his ears that seems to reverberate through his brain. He sees a gaping hole in the hull of the shuttle, figures that the fact that he’s even breathing right now means that this moon has an atmosphere that’s serviceable in the short run, hopefully not poisonous in the long run.

Good enough. When one has crash-landed in an unfamiliar location with no one but a mortal enemy at one’s side, yet with all limbs intact and accounted for, good enough turns out to be pretty fucking good indeed.

Speaking of which, Poe looks around for said mortal enemy and winces as he sees that part of the shuttle wall has collapsed on top of Hux.

He doesn’t pause to think about what he’s doing; he just does it.

Poe scrambles around the pilot and co-pilot chairs, slipping on the tilted floor (the shuttle must have crashed on uneven ground) and stumbling to his knees beside Hux. He grabs the edge of the heavy panel in both hands, tries lifting it straight up and makes some leeway. Enough to get his shoulder under it and lift with his entire body, grunting with the effort, metal groaning and scraping enough to set his teeth on edge.

The stormtrooper armor he still wears is useful, here, blunting the metal edge. He thinks it may also have something to do with the fact that other than the ringing in his ears and fuzziness in his head he appears to be mostly unharmed by the crash.

It doesn’t register in his mind that he is trying to save General Armitage Hux of the First Order, the man who’d fired Starkiller, who’d killed billions. All his pilot’s hindbrain knows is that he’s just crashed and the only other person with him on the shuttle is trapped and they both need to get out of here before they die of smoke inhalation or the whole fucking thing explodes.

Poe lurches to the side, sliding the panel off and away and feeling a jolt of satisfaction as it goes, freeing Hux.

He may not have been able to do anything about those transports above Crait, but he can do something about this.

Hux is unmoving but Poe expected that.

The next few moments are some of the most physically demanding of Poe’s life as he manages to pull Hux from the wreckage despite his fatigue and disorientation. He stumbles under Hux’s weight—thankful that the general is, indeed, as skinny as Poe had once accused him of being—as he pulls the other man up onto his back, wrapping Hux’s arms around his shoulders.

He hears Hux groan in pain. Poe stumbles again as he lurches out of the gaping hole in the shuttle, figuring it good enough for a door, and a fierce biting wind nearly knocks him over.

“Kriff,” he mumbles, hitching Hux up further on his back to keep him from slipping.

He makes it several yards from the wreckage before he goes down on his knees, breathing heavily.

He lays Hux down as carefully as he can and looks up to take stock of the situation.

Everywhere he looks he sees white.

The ground is cracked and dry with a light dusting of white powder that kicks up in the howling wind, swirling in the air and obscuring the horizon. Poe looks back at the shuttle. It’s a broken carcass, its back half consumed by a thick plume of dark smoke curling up into the sky.

“Kriff,” he mutters. “Kriff kriff _kriff._ ”

He looks at the shuttle. He looks at the horizon. He looks at Hux.

It’s _cold._ Already he is shivering and Poe’s heart beats wildly in his chest at the realization that surviving the crash was only half the battle.

There is— _something_ off to the right. He squints, trying to make sense of what he could be seeing through the maelstrom. A cliffside? The sky is simply darker there but he can’t tell how far away it might be.

Still, it’s probably his best chance of shelter.

He knows what he should do. He should go back to the shuttle, scavenge whatever emergency gear he can find, and high-tail it off this frozen, wind-swept tundra. Post-haste. Right now.

He looks down at Hux.

He knows he should leave the general behind.

That _leg_ is the biggest problem, but there are others. The fact that the guy is nominally his enemy, in fact the enemy of the entire free galaxy at this point. He’d killed _planets,_ for stars’ sake. Planets, plural. He _deserves_ to die in an ice storm on a no-name moon. Poe isn’t even sure he’s capable of saving himself at this point, let alone himself and Hux.

And Hux has shown nothing but derision and distaste for Poe’s very existence. The guy had even seemed disgusted to be on the same _shuttle_ as Poe, like breathing the same air would warp his distorted sense of purity and self-identity. So kriff him. Poe should save himself, leave Hux to his fate.

He knows it’s not an option even as he argues with himself that it’s the only thing that makes sense.

“ _Kriff!”_ Poe swears, then staggers to his feet, fighting the wind and squinting against the sharp bite of ice crystals in the air as he makes his way back to the shuttle. Thankfully the wind is blowing the smoke away from the cockpit now as he stumbles inside, feet catching on the unpredictable pitch of the ruined metal floors.

He is, however briefly, reminded of their shared culture and history when he easily locates the First Order emergency kit behind a panel in the cockpit, beneath the control panel on the pilot’s left side, exactly where he expects it to be. There’s a first aid kit, and behind it a combined survival/rations kit, and Poe straightens with both heavy packs tucked under his arms.

The wind shifts suddenly, and the smoke forces Poe out of the cockpit. Blinking against the combined assault of smoke and icy wind, Poe stumbles back to Hux, who seems completely unconscious at this point. Poe bends to check for a pulse, just in case.

He finds one, before his eyes are inevitably drawn to the ruin that is Hux’s right leg. The angles aren’t right. The pant leg is torn along the shin, cloth edges fluttering in the wind and blood welling up from the avulsion. Poe winces. The wind bites into him and he fights against a whole-body shiver.

He shoves thoughts of Hux’s leg to the back of his mind. He has to get them to shelter. That dark smudge on the horizon is his only hope of respite from the elements. Maybe they could have hunkered down near the shuttle if it wasn’t broken and on fire…

As Poe darts a look around the wreckage he sees a slightly curved metal panel that will have to do for a stretcher.

Painstakingly, he drags Hux onto the panel. Every time he moves him the general groans and seems close to regaining consciousness before falling still again. Poe goes back to the shuttle to scavenge from the section not currently engulfed in smoke. It’s fairly simple to find an electrical panel and yank a few lengths of wire loose. It takes longer to thread them around the packs and Hux to secure them to the panel.

There’s actual rope in the survival pack but Poe uses that as a harness around himself to pull the makeshift sled.

By the time they’re ready to move Poe has lost feeling in his hands and face and is happy for the exertion of pulling Hux and their supplies. It’s the only thing keeping him warm. He hopes against hope that the survival pack includes heaters, fire starters, thermal blankets. If not, they won’t last long, shelter or not.

Time stretches on and on. The sled scrapes against the tundra, a hollow chant that accompanies the unearthly wailing of the wind. The smudge on the horizon slowly gains definition.

It’s definitely a cliffside. Poe struggles on with renewed enthusiasm, quite unwilling to die here before he can take Hux to task for it. This is all his fault, after all. What kind of a person gets shot down by his own side? Ridiculous. This is not what Poe asked for when he decided to take a high-ranking First Order officer hostage.

An interminable amount of time later, when Poe can’t tell the difference between his chattering teeth and his rapidly beating heart, the cliff looms above them. The wind lessens slightly, buffeted by the towering rock. There are crags and cracks and ledges and tumbled boulders and Poe just _knows_ he can find a cave. The universe wouldn’t bring him this far only for him to die.

He leaves the sled at the foot of the cliff as he seeks out their salvation. A few heartbreaking false starts—dark cracks that seem to promise shelter, only revealing themselves to be shallow indentations upon closer inspection—jar him into desperation. After a while he turns back, passes the sled with Hux’s still form (thinking the man has probably frozen to death already, he should have covered him with a blanket from the survival kit, he’s not thinking clearly) and continues on in his search in the opposite direction.

It’s almost insulting how quickly he stumbles across the cave.

After blinking stupidly at the dark opening Poe scrambles back to the sled. He drags it the last few dozen feet and unthinkingly barges in.

The ground slopes dramatically beneath his feet and before Poe can stop the inevitable chain of events the makeshift sled gains speed and knocks his legs out from under him. He tumbles to the ground with a disconcerted shout and rolls down after the sled, which eventually comes to rest against the far wall of the small cave.

Poe spends a moment catching his breath. He already feels warmer being out of the wind but he realizes as he sits up that it’s not enough to save himself from hypothermia and who knows what state Hux is in by now.

Poe picks himself up and moves to Hux’s side to check on him. He doesn’t realize that the general is awake until he strikes, fist clenched around a blade and arcing toward the side of Poe’s head. Poe has enough energy left in him to duck, just in time, the blade shearing off a few strands of hair as it passes over his head and then he’s wrestling Hux’s arm down to his side.

“Stop it! Stop!” Hux continues to struggle, the blade waving too close to Poe’s face. It nicks his cheek. Blood immediately drips from the clean cut and still the knife is edging closer, Hux’s face a rictus of snarl, ferocious and feral with a fevered glint in his eye.

Poe sees little other choice. He kicks Hux’s broken leg. The effect is immediate.

Hux gasps, his arm going limp as his eyes roll up and he convulses in pain.

“I’m sorry, Hugs,” Poe whispers, panting as he holds Hux’s arm down. The general doesn’t seem to have heard him. He is deathly pale and very still. Poe swallows past the bile in his throat and takes the opportunity to push up Hux’s sleeve and strip him of his knife.

It might not be the only weapon hidden on Hux’s person, but Poe doesn’t think he has to worry about another attack for the moment. Hux is quaking beneath him, hands spasming as he whimpers and then falls silent, head rolling limply to the side.

Poe slumps to the ground, exhausted.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning to please pay attention to the tags, lots of mentions of past child abuse here.

Armitage Hux is familiar with pain.

Even the very specific pain of broken bones is nothing new to him. Hux had known the pain of a broken wrist, arm, and collarbone by the age of ten. Having ready access to a Star Destroyer’s medbay only made his father even bolder in his applications of force to a child he saw as weak, ineffectual, whiny and altogether intolerable.

Fractured ribs. Cracked eye sockets. Hair pulled out by the fistful. Bloodied noses and split lips. Hux’s childhood was a revolving door of pain, of various types, intensities, durations. What most people failed to realize is that there are so many nuances to pain. His body and his mind remember them all, catalogued in nerve endings and neurons.

He received additional lessons in pain when Snoke took over the First Order some six years ago. Pain that left no visible marks, no physical aberrations. Pain that existed solely in his mind. He had wanted to laugh when Ren came along, with his blundering Force-tantrums. Flinging Hux into walls and choking him—what a childish brand of pain. Naive. Unimaginative. Hux had endured it easily.

Yes, Hux and pain are old friends.

And yet he is still surprised when he finally emerges from his murky unconsciousness and meets this new species of agony.

His leg is a singular column of flame that burns up his spine. Hux gasps and tries to twist away from it but there is no escaping it, of course. He knows this. Pain is inevitable.

Other thoughts, sensations, observations try to assert themselves. He briefly understands that he is cold but forgets the observation immediately, his mind holding nothing. Armitage Hux does not exist. He has been torn apart and scattered to the winds and all that is left is a body that still feels.

He grasps at the pieces of himself, tries to pull himself together. He is Armitage Hux.

A brief whine escapes him, chased by terror. He wrenches his arm around to clasp a hand over his mouth, stifling any further sound. But his throat works of its own accord, and he hears little grunts and whimpers that must be coming from him and he squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the hand down harder, harder.

He is Armitage Hux and he is in pain and he is making _sounds_ and if he wants to survive this he needs to stop.

Hux opens his mouth and bites down on the side of his hand, breathing hard through his nose. Sweat pools on his upper lip and he is trembling, face contorting as the tremors amplify the agony in his leg. He grunts again and again terror floods him and his eyes go wide with fear as he bites down even harder.

Someone is trying to remove his hand from his mouth but he can’t let them. It’s the only thing keeping him from crying out and if he cries out the punishment will be doubled, he knows this, he’s lived it, it’s been drilled in him since the day he was torn from his mother’s arms and bid one last look at the rain-soaked planet of his birth.

Don’t cry out. Don’t cry out. Keep quiet. Keep quiet.

_Quiet, Armitage._ It’s a kind whisper. Right words, wrong context. _Keep very still. It’ll be alright._

An endless tide of pain beats against his resolve. He whimpers again and flinches when the voice changes.

_Silence! Pathetic child. Sniveling weakling._

Hux bites down even harder and tastes copper.

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’ll be good please stop please_

_I don’t want you to beg! Prove you’re not as useless as your ill-bred mother. Prove you’re a man worthy of my name!_

Whoever is trying to pull his hand away is shouting at him but Hux can barely hear them. The pressure of their hands around his wrist suddenly recedes and Hux tries to curl in on himself, protect himself from the blows that are sure to come because despite his best efforts he is not being quiet, not at all.

A pinprick to the side of his neck hardly registers. His mind is fully occupied at the moment, full to bursting with the imperative that if he suffers he must do so _silently._ He only regains the ability to think when a cool wash of relief floods him, the agony receding to a manageable distance, leaving him gasping and empty. He finally removes his hand from his mouth, letting it rest limply on his heaving chest.

“Hux? Hux, can you hear me?”

_Dameron._

Hux closes his eyes again, despair and hatred behind every frantic beat of his heart. He remembers where he is: stranded, somewhere (Chulza? No—gas planet, poison atmosphere—ship? No—cold, ground rough, stone above him—Hell? Maybe, maybe), with Dameron. That fucking pilot whose _entire fault all of this is._

“Fuck you.” He pants, eyes rolling loosely in their sockets, sliding past the pilot to gaze up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, keep sweet-talking me,” the pilot says dryly. “Maybe I’ll keep the next hypospray for myself.”

“Injured?” Hux’s mind, freed from the constraints of overwhelming pain, immediately sets to cataloging their current situation.

“Nah, don’t think so.”

“Where…?” Hux trails off, swallowing, throat clicking. He moves one hand against the ground. His head falls to one side and he sweeps a gaze around the cave.

In the very corner of his field of vision he can sense more than see the pilot shrug.

“One of those moons around Chulza.”

That is fine. Of the many hundreds of moons circling the massive planet, a vast percentage of them are inhabited. Even if a vast percentage of _that_ vast percentage is in open rebellion against the First Order, well, Hux can just use Dameron’s fame among the Resistance to barter for aid.

Barter for aid, food and shelter and medical attention and transportation off this miserable rock and then…what?

Hux shakes his head, regretting the movement as nausea twists his stomach into knots. His chest aches and he winces slightly with each breath, wondering if he cracked a rib or two. He remembers nothing of the crash, nothing of how they got from the shuttle to this cave and his helplessness threatens to overwhelm him.

He takes himself through the mental exercises he has used the past few months to keep himself sane under Ren’s scrutiny.

Hux fights against a growing headache to try to understand why he is currently huddled in a cave with the pilot who had insulted his mother. He works some saliva into his mouth so he can speak.

“Did you see any indications of a nearby settlement?” He forms each word carefully, the effort taking more out of him than he would care to admit.

“Uh, no.” Dameron draws in a sharp breath, lets it out. “I think we might be alone here, Hugs. It’s a pretty…hostile place. That wind out there is no joke. It just looked like a frozen plain to me. The only reason we’re still talking is cuz of the portable heater in the emergency kit and…I’ll probably have to turn it down soon. Save on power reserves.” Dameron at least has the decency to sound like he regrets being the sole cause of their current predicament.

Hux rolls his eyes and tries to sit up. Someone needs to take command of this mission and it sure as hell won’t be _Dameron._ He makes it onto his elbows before his vision starts to swim.

“Easy there.” Dameron is in his line of vision again. The pilot looks unharmed, though he’s stripped off his stormtrooper armor and has wrapped himself up in a reflective thermal blanket. He’s holding up two hands in a placating gesture but wisely refrains from touching Hux. “It’s not just your leg that’s banged up. You might have a concussion.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Hux spits. He sinks back to the ground and directs the full brunt of his ire at Dameron. “Are you capable of doing anything other than delivering awful fucking news? Would you perhaps care to tell me what we _do_ have? Rations. Supplies. Equipment. Is the crash site nearby? Is the shuttle recoverable? Of all the untold numbers of unfathomably _useless_ beings in this insufferable galaxy your incompetence outshines them all!” Hux is breathing hard and his mouth is very dry but he rages on.

“A rathtar in heat would be preferable company to the likes of you. At least I could count on a quick death. Instead, I’m doomed to wither away in this cave while you dither on about ‘cold, this’ and ‘uninhabited, that’ instead of giving me the kriffing comm unit that comes standard in any First Order emergency kit so I can call for fucking help!”

“Ya done?” The pilot asks dryly, lifting an eyebrow.

“I am not done! I will never be done! This is _all your fault!_ ”

“I know.” Dameron is nodding, now, in an infuriatingly calm manner while Hux grinds his teeth together and clenches his hands into fists. It is then that he realizes he lost a glove in the crash, and has to take a moment to mourn it as an oddly poignant loss. His hand is cold. He hides it in the fold of his elbow.

Dameron moves away and Hux has to crane his neck to see what he’s doing.

“Weeeell,” the pilot drawls, kneeling down next to the supply packs and giving a low whistle, as if he’s opening up the engine compartment of a speeder. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

And, with an attitude that borders insultingly close to _cheerful_ , Dameron outlines their supplies. Meal bars. Canteens. Medical packs, including a tin of bacta gel that Dameron has apparently applied to Hux’s head (Hux wasn’t even aware he had a head injury). Thermal blankets—one of which is already covering Hux, though he doesn’t notice this until the pilot points it out. Hux’s brain feels fuzzy and inadequate and he struggles to keep his attention on the pilot’s annoyingly boisterous voice.

He must not be doing as good a job of that as he thought because suddenly Dameron is right in front of him again, calling out his name.

“Keep your voice down,” he mutters.

“Stay with me, then,” the pilot fires back. Hux frowns. Dameron presses something into his hand. “Comm unit, as requested.”

“Finally, a modicum of competence.” Hux blinks and brings the device closer to his face, but it looks foreign to him.

“Hugs?”

“Can’t set the beacon,” he mutters, mostly to himself. That’s a simple switch but it would advertise their position to the _Steadfast_ which is likely still in orbit. The only reason they are still alive is because Ren thinks he is dead so the emergency beacon is out. Hux intended to do something else but for the life of him he can’t remember what it was.

A bolt of pain lances up from his leg and Hux hisses, dropping the comm unit.

“Kriff.” Dameron actually looks worried and that annoys Hux, for some reason. “We don’t have that many painkillers, I can’t give you another yet.”

“I don’t need it,” Hux snaps. What he needs is a bacta tank. What they _have_ is their little tin of bacta gel which at most would heal the places where the skin was torn clean from his shin but do nothing for the break. It occurs to him that Dameron might have already applied bacta to his leg while Hux was unconscious. It seems very difficult to coordinate the muscles in his throat necessary to ask.

His hand shakes as he picks up the comm unit and accesses some deeply-routed autopilot in his own psyche to switch the controls to passively receive on a cycle of frequencies, transmitting nothing from the unit but scanning for any nearby activity. If there’s a settlement on this moon using anything resembling current tech, the comm unit should pick up the chatter.

For now, it simply emits a soft static that quickly fills Hux’s head. He floats on it, eyes slowly falling shut.

When he wakes up again, all he knows is that he’s in pain and there is someone sitting in far too close proximity to him. An enemy; it must be, he has no friends. Subordinates like Mitaka would know not to sit so close. Hux swings his arm around, triggering the monomolecular blade—

Nothing happens. His arm freezes in mid air, fist just a few inches from Dameron’s spleen.

“Did you just try to stab me _again?”_ The man yelps.

_“_ Where is my knife?” Hux’s voice is bemused as he blinks at his arm, twisting it slowly.

“I took it from you because you kept trying to _stab me._ ” Dameron sounds far too offended and Hux finds it irritating, petulant and childish.

“Don’t take it personally,” Hux mumbles. “I’ve tried to stab a lot of people.”

That gets a snort from Dameron, and Hux frowns. He shouldn’t be making Dameron laugh. Dameron is a pestilence on the galaxy.

Hux shivers. It is indeed cold.

He has no idea how long he was out. The pain in his leg is worse than it was when he and Dameron last spoke but not so bad that he can’t control his reactions. Hux schools his face to stoic acceptance of his fate, betraying his intense discomfort only through a twitching muscle in his cheek.

And right on the heels of pain and cold Hux becomes aware of his thirst. He has been breathing through his mouth more than usual and the air is insufferably dry. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat clicks every time he swallows. He can’t even remember the last time he’d had something to drink aboard the _Steadfast_. He had been woefully behind on his meals at the time of his capture. Unfortunate, considering their circumstances.

He hates to ask for water, to appear to _beg_ , but his need is great. It seems significant that Dameron hasn’t offered him some already, given that he’d applied bacta to Hux’s head. A nominally friendly gesture, but what was the motive? Hux wonders if Dameron is keeping him alive out of amusement, if he will take pleasure in denying him water, if he wishes to see Hux suffer. It seems likely.

Likely enough to make Hux want to delay asking but he also needs to stay coherent and he fears that dehydration is taking a toll on his mental capabilities so in the interest of self-preservation he breaks.

_Weak-willed. Thin as a slip of paper and just as useless._

His tongue flicks out to part his dry lips enough to speak.

“Water?” It comes out as a cracked whisper, his eyes flicking up to Dameron. He tells himself he’s merely asking if there _is_ water, not begging the pilot to grant it to him.

“Kriff!” Dameron shoots to his feet so fast it startles Hux. He comes back with a canteen, looking truly apologetic as he kneels next to Hux’s face. “Sorry, sorry, I totally forgot. I’m not exactly a nurse.”

He forgot. How lovely. Hux feels like the inside of his mouth and throat are coated in sandpaper and he is dizzy with thirst but it’s okay, Dameron just _forgot._

With a dramatic roll of his eyes Hux takes the canteen and brings it to his lips, managing to drink without spilling any despite the way his hand shakes. He still has his ungloved hand buried between his arm and chest, unwilling to expose it to the air, to…other things. It has been a long time since he went without gloves outside of the shower. He even sleeps with them on.

He finds it supremely irritating how much his thoughts fixate on this minute, unimportant, tedious detail. But the water makes him feel more human.

“Dameron.” The pilot glances back at him. Hux swallows, fighting a sudden nervous flutter in his stomach. “My leg. _Clearly_ you are no nurse—” Hux hangs on the emphasis, knowing it isn’t a prime example of his biting wit but unable to resist any opportunity to needle, belittle, provoke—“but in your estimation…how bad is it?” Hux’s voice softens at the end. He clears his throat and looks away in an attempt to cover his moment of vulnerability.

“Oh.” Dameron takes the canteen, screws the cap back on. Seems wholly preoccupied with this task, and Hux can tell when someone is delaying the inevitable delivery of bad news.

“Yeah it’s not…it’s not, uh, exactly good. It’s broken.”

“I know,” Hux snaps, and Dameron winces, then seems to marshal himself to a sullen sort of anger. A helpless anger, Hux realizes.

“You lost a lot of skin so I put bacta on that to keep it from infecting. But I don’t know how to set bones or make a splint.” Dameron looks sheepish now and Hux directs his gaze at the stone overhead to avoid it.

Hux is suddenly struck by the weight of his predicament. For the foreseeable future he relies completely on Dameron for…everything. He supposes he can crawl across the cave floor. That seems about it.

Everything outside the cave…Dameron could be lying to him. What if there’s a settlement nearby after all? What if just outside the cave is a filthy Resistance horde, waiting to descend upon him? What if this is all a joke, some sick torture in answer for Hux’s role in the First Order? In firing Starkiller?

What if everything Dameron has said is true and the pilot abandons him?

Hux doesn’t understand why he hasn’t already. Dameron could take the supplies and they would last him twice as long. None of this makes any sense. _Why is he still alive?_

“Whatcha thinkin’ there, Red?”

The new nickname does the trick of jarring him from his spiral. Hux forces himself to take deeper breaths, refusing to show any more weakness in front of his adversary. He presses his lips together and doesn’t answer.

“Alright, listen.” Dameron sighs, though his mood reads almost good-natured to Hux—he can tell because it’s so unfamiliar—as he sits cross-legged and levels a steady look at him. “Let’s get this out in the open. I don’t like you, you don’t like me, yada yada. Enemies. War criminal,” he gestures at Hux, “rebel,” he waves at himself. “I get it.”

“Terrorist,” Hux mutters, correcting him, because ‘rebel’ sounds like praise on Dameron’s tongue. The pilot rolls his eyes.

“Sure, buddy. The point is, all that stuff? It’s gotta go out the kriffin’ window. You gotta stop trying to stab me, and I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep us both alive until we get outta here. As soon as you’re back on your feet and we’re off this rock we can go back to trying to kill each other. Sound good?”

Hux snorts. As if he has any choice in the matter.

“Fine. A truce.” Considering he’s still laying on his back, fighting alternating tides of nausea and pain, the fact that Dameron even waits to hear his assent is laughable. Hux, as ever, finds himself on the paltry end of a power imbalance, but he has his ways. He will watch. He will wait. He will seek out his moment and he will prevail, despite everything. Just like he always has.

And he _will_ see Dameron with fear in his eyes.

“Great,” the pilot says, wholly unaware of the true nature of the danger he is in. “Now let’s get some shut-eye.”

And Dameron turns over and lays down right there, just on the other side of the portable heater. Hux makes a strangled sound of protest and sputters,

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Huh?”

“No, truly.” Hux struggles to prop himself up on his elbows. “I’m concerned you might have actually lost your fucking mind if you think you’re sleeping anywhere near me.” He gestures sharply to the far end of the cave, threatening to lose his balance. “Over there is where you belong, Resistance scum.”

“We literally _just_ went over this.”

“Get. Away. From. Me.” Hux bares his teeth.

“I’ll freeze!”

“Then _take the fucking heater._ I’ll be fine.” Freezing is far preferable to Hux over spending any longer with Dameron invading his personal space. There has been too much of that already.

“No, _you’ll_ freeze. Hugs, this is ridiculous, just go to sleep.”

Ridiculous. Hux’s nostrils flare at this blatant insubordination.

Well, he supposes that he and Dameron are really the same rank—as unfair as that seems—and from warring militaries, of course, but it still chafes at Hux to have his orders challenged by one who is so _clearly_ beneath him. Besides which he is _tired_ and yet Dameron persists in inflicting his close proximity on Hux.

He cannot sleep like this. It’s intolerable.

Hux starts to drag himself away from the pilot.

“Hey! You shouldn’t—”

Hux tunes the pilot out and grits his teeth against the nauseating pain radiating from his leg. He makes it little more than a foot before the pilot is scrambling to his feet, doing that placating hand gesture again.

Hux eyes him warily as he takes the heater, moves it so it is halfway between them and settles down about five or six feet from Hux. Less distance than Hux had originally dictated but certainly preferable to what it was before.

Hux, who had been holding himself up on his arms, slumps gracelessly to the ground. Shaking, breathing hard, he tries to mask his exhaustion. The pilot sees too much with those falsely innocent eyes.

“Thank you,” Hux mumbles as he closes his eyes, relief too poignant for him to realize what he’s saying.

“Yeah, yeah.” The pilot is moody. “Just go to kriffin’ sleep. I’m warning you, if I start to freeze I’m coming right back over there.”

Hux has already slipped into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how bacta works. Maybe a light application of it does heal broken bones in canon...if so, it doesn't in this fic. I probably shouldn't have included it at all but you've all been extremely tolerant of my limited canon knowledge so far and I hope that extends to this. <3


	6. Chapter 6

Poe wakes to Cold.

It is like nothing he has ever felt before. He imagines this is what the vacuum of space must feel like—a void that sucks away his body heat, a nothingness that bites.

The wind howls outside the cave. The ground near the entrance is coated in a layer of white.

They have the little heater that came with the emergency supplies but it’s not enough to beat back the encroaching cold. A fire would be nice and the kit does come with a fire starter and kindling but Poe would have to leave Hux in the cave while he seeks out enough wood to feed it. He doesn’t even remember seeing any trees. Though, he might’ve missed them in all the excitement after the crash. He can only hope.

Poe feels a brief flash of annoyance that their survival hinges solely on him. Of course Hux had to go and break his leg.

Asshole.

Poe looks at him now, a still lump huddled several feet away under a First Order greatcoat and the reflective fabric of the thermal blanket. The dim red light of the heater’s status indicator is the only illumination in the dark cave—their shelter and, possibly, their tomb.

Poe blows out a long breath, trying to bring his shivering under control.

“Hey, Red,” he hisses. “You awake?”

There is no response from Hux so Poe rolls his eyes and sits up, clutching his own blanket around his shoulders. It’s not enough. He’s suddenly sure of that.

He is cold in a way that scares him. His fingers are burning hot and he knows that isn’t right, that it is in fact very very bad. He blows a breath over them, rubs them together, but cold against cold doesn’t make much extra warmth.

He thinks back to a story he’s heard from many different people over the course of his life—a story of a young Skywalker and Solo, trekking across a frozen planet, and Han’s bid to save Luke’s life.

He raises an eyebrow, appraising Hux’s still form as if he is very much considering slicing him open like a tauntaun and crawling inside.

The thought is _almost_ more appealing than his next one.

“ _Red,_ ” he says, louder this time, as he levers himself onto his knees and then staggers to his feet. “I’m coming over.”

It’s only a few clumsy steps before he’s kneeling down next to Hux.

“Listen, sunshine, I don’t like this any more than you do but—”

He’s shaking Hux’s shoulder to wake him, and cuts off with a frown when he gets no response. The man appears to be deeply asleep, but continues to show no signs of life despite Poe’s efforts to wake him. A deep pulse of concern clutches Poe’s stomach before he remembers that he and every sane member of the galaxy has wanted this man dead for a long time.

Still, he’d rather Hux die on _his_ terms, you know?

And, more truthfully…Poe doesn’t want to be alone.

He’s never done well alone. He’s always needed his team—his wing mates, his droid, his _friends._ He doesn’t know who he is without someone else to bounce ideas off of, even if they’re a sullen and sour party who would appreciate nothing more than for him to shut up. That’s still something.

The thought of being on this stupid, cracked, frozen moon, alone but for Hux’s corpse…down that path lies madness for Poe. He’s certain of that much.

Hux appears to be breathing, albeit shallowly, so Poe—now desperately cold and already committed to his course—flicks aside the edge of the blanket and, beneath that, the heavy coat covering the other man and sidles up to him with an expression that says he would likely be holding his nose if his hands weren’t otherwise occupied.

He covers them both with both of their coats and the blankets and despite himself lets out a little sigh of relief. Hux is pale and still as if he were carved from the same icy stone as the rest of the cave, but it is still undeniably warmer with him than without.

Poe tries to push away his worry at Hux’s unresponsive state, angry at himself for every decision in his life that has led him here—pressed up against the man who killed billions.

He finds that talking helps.

“You’re an asshole,” he starts off, voice dry as he closes his eyes and nods, ignores the way that his forehead brushes against Hux’s chin. “You know that? But…kriff, I don’t want to die here, man. Not like this. And I assume you don’t either.”

There is no response from the General, who is laying there like he is already dead. His skin is frigid against Poe’s fingers as he checks for a pulse, finds one despite the fact that Hux isn’t even shivering anymore and Poe _knows_ that that’s bad.

Where will Poe be if Hux dies? Shit out of luck, that’s where, and that’s why he’s worried, and that’s the _only_ reason. The data stick he took from the _Steadfast_ is burning a brand in the inside pocket of Poe’s jacket. He can’t die before he gets it back to the Resistance. Before he makes up for everything he’s done.

One of Hux’s hands, the one that lost the glove—the one he’d bitten so hard that a livid bruise has formed, that the skin broke where his canines dug in—is lying curled up at his chest. As Poe’s wrist brushes against it he fights the urge to snatch his hand away. Hux’s fingers are like shards of ice.

Poe bites his lower lip.

“C’mon, Hugs,” Poe says, shaking him a little. Then, he snorts. “Hugs, that’s even funnier now. Get it? Hugs? Cuz we’re…I’m funny, damn it.”

He blinks, looking at Hux’s face as if for the first time. They’re in such close proximity that it’s almost all he can see.

He’s used to seeing lines of anger on his brow, disgust curling the corners of his mouth. But like this Hux’s face is smooth, almost childlike. His eyelashes are light orange, nearly translucent, and Poe has the fleeting thought that gingers are strange creatures.

“Y’know, you’re not such an ugly bastard when you’re not sneering at people. Or destroying entire star systems.” Poe frowns. “Great, now I’m bummed out. Thanks for that.”

Quite suddenly, Hux huffs out a little breath and abruptly bursts into violent shivers. Poe forgets himself in his excitement over the confirmation that he is not, in fact, cuddling and conversing with a corpse, and starts rubbing Hux’s icy fingers between his palms.

“Alright! That’s it, buddy.” He laughs. “Way to go, breathing and everything. Shit, look at us, a couple of genu-ine survivors, aren’t we?”

Hux is glaring up at him, eyes hooded with exhaustion but still burning with that fevered hate that always seems to simmer beneath the surface. His shoulders, his chest, his entire body shakes uncontrollably but he still manages to stutter out a retort.

“Sh-sh-shhhu-ut up, D-d-dam—D-damero-on.”

Poe has to hand it to him: he’s committed.

“I can’t, I’m nervous. This is my first time cuddling with a war criminal, after all. You’ll be gentle, right?”

“ _F-f-f-fuck you._ ”

“Maybe later.” Poe winks, though his charm is utterly wasted because Hux’s eyes are squeezed shut.

Again: _asshole_.

Hux doesn’t respond this time, simply curls in on himself a bit more (Poe can hear his teeth chattering) and as his chin tucks in to his chest Poe is struck again by the realization of just how _small_ Hux is.

He’s tall, of course, taller than Poe, but he’s thin. Narrow shoulders, small hands.

It’s an odd feeling, to look at this man who terrorized the galaxy and see that underneath that greatcoat and here outside the grandeur of his Star Destroyer he is really rather frail. Something about Hux—his fervor, his prickly demeanor—has always seemed compensatory and Poe thinks he understands it, now.

“How old are you, Hugs?” He asks suddenly, surprising himself with the question.

Hux cracks open one eye, peering up at him with suspicion and open hatred.

Poe rolls his eyes.

“Seriously, man?” He huffs a bit, scrunching down more into their little cocoon, the rough fabric of Hux’s greatcoat brushing his cheek. “It’s not like I’m asking the location of your secret bases or some shit, I just want to know how old you are. Anyone could look that up on a datapad, I just don’t happen to have one shoved down my trousers at the moment.”

“Shut up,” Hux sneers. He squeezes his eyes shut again. “It’s bad enough that I have to lie here with putrid rebel scum like you without having to listen to your puerile taunts.”

“Taunts?” Poe laughs. “C’mon, I just like teasing you. We’re old friends, right? Here, I’ll go first: I’m thirty-three. I know, I look young. The baby-face: it’s a curse.”

“Your hair is _grey_ , you imbecile.”

Poe’s jaw drops, and an offended little laugh escapes.

“Take it back!” He shoves at Hux’s shoulder and Hux flinches away.

“ _Stop touching me_ ,” he hisses.

“Well that’s gonna be a bit hard, seeing as we’re sharing body heat so we don’t die and all.”

“A decision I had no part in. I’d rather die.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Poe laughs. “Now, c’mon. Your turn.”

“Oh, for the— _I’m thirty-five._ Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” Poe has forgotten why he even asked in the first place. Probably out of sheer boredom—he’s certainly not tired or comfortable enough to fall asleep again. “Y’know, that’s pretty young to be a general. Kudos.” Ignoring the fact that Poe himself, at two years younger, is the second highest ranking member of the Resistance. But the First Order is different, Poe thinks bitterly. Their soldiers have the chance to grow old.

Hux is looking at him now like he’s lost his mind, and maybe he has.

“I don’t know what your game is, Dameron, but I refuse to comply with it.” He shuts his eyes again, hunching over even further, and Poe thinks he sees the ghost of a wince. “Now for once in your worthless life will you simply _shut up?_ I’m tired.” And he suddenly _sounds_ tired, the vitriol in his voice petering out towards the end.

“It wasn’t a game,” Poe mutters, aware that he is dangerously close to pouting. “Paranoid jerk. Fine, go to sleep then. I hope you’re looking forward to waking up to my beautiful face in the morning. You’re a lucky man, Hugs.”

Hux’s only response to that is a deep, bone-weary sigh, and Poe cracks another grin before drawing the coat tighter around his shoulders and closing his eyes. He listens to the soft static hum of the comm unit as it scans for local transmissions, listens to the wind as it whistles and moans in the dark world beyond the cave.

It’s hard to get truly comfortable, knowing that his face is mere inches from Hux’s, but Poe is finally warm. He stops shivering, and with his eyes closed he can pretend Hux is someone else.

Eventually exhaustion wins out and sleep takes him.

Poe wakes feeling oddly rested, and missing the warmth that had lulled him to sleep. Half-aware, his hand moves against the quickly-cooling rock beside him, seeking out the presence that had kept it warm—until his brain catches up and he realizes that he cannot— _does not_ —miss the touch of Armitage Hux.

Poe sits up and the blankets and coats slide off of him. He yawns and stretches, still addled by sleep, languishing in the murky drift of consciousness before the full awareness of his dire situation swamps him. He allows himself one final careless thought, as he looks around for Hux, dragging a hand through his curls: that he did not hate sharing warmth with the other man nearly as much as he should have.

Hux is sitting up against the rock wall and fiddling with the comm unit. Poe immediately notes the pinched look on his face, the way his hands shake as he pries off the panel and bares the unit’s circuitry to the frosty air.

“Let me get you another painkiller,” Poe says, amiable in the afterglow of a surprisingly restful night. Hux ignores him, which Poe supposes he should have expected.

“We should have heard something by now,” Hux says. He manages to sound irritated with the comm unit, Poe, himself, and perhaps every chain of events that led to him being here. Poe fights the urge to roll his eyes. “I think I can increase the pickup range but I need parts from the shuttle. What was the extent of the damage? Is anything salvageable?”

“Uhh,” Poe rubs his chin, then shrugs, getting up to scrounge around for a rations bar. He tosses one to Hux, somehow knowing that the man hasn’t eaten yet. “It was smoking pretty bad when I pulled you out. Didn’t stick around long enough to see if the fire put itself out or not.”

Hux sneers. The rations bar lays untouched next to his broken leg.

“Hey, don’t you start with me today. You were hurt, it was cold, I didn’t think it was worth the time. Now that things’ve calmed down a bit I wouldn’t mind going back to poke around. Eat up.”

“You wouldn’t even know what to look for, would you?”

“I know my way around a cockpit, thank you very much. You want the long-range transmitter, don’t you?”

“Indeed. Listening for local signals is all well and good but it’s getting us nowhere. This pittance of a moon may well be uninhabited and it would be my distinct preference to signal for help before we starve to death.”

Poe unconsciously touches his jacket, feeling for the data stick. It’s a small amount of comfort that all of this is not for nothing. Though he narrows his eyes at Hux.

“Yesterday you said we couldn’t use the beacon.” Poe nudges Hux’s good leg with his foot. “ _Eat._ ”

Hux picks up the bar and fiddles with the wrapper, looking unconvinced. His voice is strained and Poe knows that he’s still in a great deal of pain.

“The beacon is a direct line to the First Order. The recipient cannot be modified except with tools that I do not currently possess. I hope to use the transmitter to contact your _friends_ —” Hux sneers through the word—“unless you have reason to believe they would also bombard you from orbit.” There is a bitterness there at the end that makes Poe tilt his head.

“Yeah, what’s up with that, anyway?” He hasn’t had time yet to ask Hux why his own side tried to blow him into stardust. “Why’d Kylo shoot you down? Trouble in paradise? Or did he just wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“More like the wrong side of life,” Hux mutters distractedly, and the dryness draws a chuckle out of Poe that earns a fleeting raised eyebrow from Hux. “He has wanted to kill me since he met me.” Hux waves a hand. “Snoke held him off for a while. Since his demise it was only a matter of time. Your little _escape plan_ was the perfect opportunity to get rid of me without raising suspicion within the Order. If you weren’t so stupid I would suspect you of working with him towards that very goal.”

“Okay, I’m just gonna ignore that last bit for now. But kriff, Hugs, really? Didn’t you like, _live_ with the guy? And you knew all along that he wanted to kill you.” Poe shakes his head as he takes the last bite of his rations bar. He doesn’t understand how anyone can work under the sorts of pressures the First Order puts on its people. He trusts Leia and Rey and everyone else back at the Resistance base with his life.

“Many people wish to kill me, Dameron. I’m not convinced you aren’t among them.”

Poe rolls his eyes. Hux has finally finished unwrapping the rations bar and is looking at it like it might bite him, instead of the other way around. Poe sees that bite mark on his hand again and almost asks about it before remembering that he’s not supposed to care about whatever fucked up coping mechanisms Hux has to deal with pain. That’s not really his business and it’s not going to help them survive or get off this rock.

“Well,” Poe stands and dusts himself off, shivering lightly in the frigid air. “It’s still kriffing cold and we’ve got another night coming around so I figure I’d better get out there and see if there’s anything we can use to build a fire.” He kicks at the little heater, its battery reading low.

“If you—” Hux cuts himself off and Poe gives him a curious look. After a beat, Hux continues, speaking as if he begrudges each word. “If you come across anything I can use as a splint…”

Poe nods, grinning despite the circumstances and ticking off on his fingers as he recites:

“Fuel for a fire, transmitter from the shuttle, something for a splint. Anything else I can pick up for you while I’m out, dear?”

Poe ducks just in time as the rations bar goes flying over his head.

“C’mon, man, I’m just kidding!”

Hux is silent, livid, snarling. His hands grip his ripped and blood-stained trousers at the thighs. Poe simply looks at him for a long moment, taking it in: the feral anger that is beyond anger, the _animality_ of it, the way Hux shakes with it. Poe shakes his head and backs out of the cave, mutteringsomething about being back soon.

When he steps out into the open, he takes a deep breath.

It’s colder out here, the wind still biting, but the air is fresh. The sting of ice crystals in the air has abated and the sun shines overhead, the sky seeming higher than the day before when it was slung low and heavy with grey clouds.

The landscape is more varied than he gave it credit for. There is a tundra, yes, and in the flat distance Poe can see what must be the shuttle—a dark smudge against the horizon like a crumpled bird, one wing stuck high in the air. But as he sweeps his gaze to the left he sees the flatness give way to low hills brushed with dry white dust and erupting every here and there with twisted forms that may just be something like trees.

He sets off in that direction immediately, leaving the shadow of the sheer cliff behind him.

He marches at a quick pace. Poe feels naked without his flightsuit even with the comforting weight of a blaster in his thigh holster. A familiar sort of anxiety is singing in his veins, the sort that would precede a difficult mission, making his hands itch for the controls of his X-wing, phantom beeps from BB-8 jangling in his ears.

Even though it’s been little more than a day, Poe misses them. All of them: BB-8, cheerful and helpful and feisty. Rey with her doggedness, her hope. Leia’s calm certainty, her stoic presence that has weathered so much. Rose’s quickfire intelligence, Finn’s devotion to his people. Poe _misses_ them. He wants to go home.

He was so, so stupid to land himself here.

The data spike is little comfort now. If he’s really just going to die here with nothing more than a broken genocidal maniac for company then what was it all worth? If he rid the Order of their General Starkiller, did it matter? Kylo Ren is still out there wreaking havoc. Maybe without Hux he has one less distraction. Maybe next time he fights Rey, he’ll win.

Poe shakes himself from his despondency as best he can. He has a job to do.

Survive. Get off this rock. Get back to the Resistance with the goods: the data _and_ the Starkiller in binders. There’s your symbol of hope, he thinks fiercely. (It rings hollow. He doesn’t know why.)

The wind picks up. It howls at his back, urging him on from the cave.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe returns from his first trip outside the cave to find that Hux’s condition has deteriorated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update and overall very slow pace of the story. I've been struggling a lot with feelings of inadequacy so I took a bit of a break from writing this one. Hopefully this chapter is satisfying to you all in some way, I'm just not sure any more.
> 
> Anyway, here we go.

As soon as Dameron leaves the cave Hux is flooded with shame and anger.

The thrown rations bar taunts him from across the cave. He’s not proud of his outburst of anger and his childish reaction, to throw whatever weapon he possessed at Dameron, and having been stripped of his knife finding himself in possession of nothing other than the nauseating weight of the hard rations bar clutched in his fist.

Still, it had felt good to throw it, at least at first. The vicious twist of his arm had felt good. Pouring energy into his muscles for that brief exertion had felt good. Wiping the grin from Dameron’s face as he ducked had felt _very_ good. But now that Dameron is gone and the bar is lying on the ground, soiled by dirt and the last melting dregs of snow swept into the cave by the wind overnight, Hux feels empty.

And cold. Although he thinks he’s getting used to it, maybe had a bit of practice in that great big ship of his where he had always been a little cold.

But that pilot—he’s such a little—

(Hux refuses to think about last night. How he’d fallen asleep _somehow_ with Dameron against him, how the weight of another’s warm presence beside him had been not only tolerable but oddly comforting, how he had been loathe to tear himself away—)

If Dameron could just take _one thing_ about their situation seriously, it would go far towards mollifying Hux. Instead it’s all a joke to him, this cave, their imminent deaths, Hux’s injury. Of course, Dameron would have no reason to do anything other than laugh at Hux. It was what he had done in that prank call, above D’Qar, when he’d spoken glibly about Hux’s physical qualities, taunted him in front of his crew, and then insulted his mother.

That distraction had led to the attack that cost the First Order a dreadnought. Then, Snoke’s holocall, and Hux being slammed to the floor. Further humiliation before his bridge officers. Hux shakes his head, trying to dislodge the urge to wipe the blood from his lip. These thoughts are distracting. He has work to do before Dameron returns.

Before he does anything else, Hux reaches out for the medical supplies. He realizes quite abruptly that everything within the cave has been placed well within his reach and a surge of helpless hatred flows through him at this act of _pity_ by Dameron. But it is without a doubt useful to him, so distasteful as it may be he pushes the thought aside. He takes out a painkiller, hands shaking as he fumbles with the packaging, and quickly presses the hypospray to the side of his neck.

He sags backward in relief.

After a moment Hux packs it all up neatly and decides it’s high time he takes stock of his leg.

Peeling back the emergency blanket, he braces himself for what he might see.

Oddly, the first thing he notices and what sets him back is the irreparable state of his uniform.

He thinks idly, through a fog that might be shielding him from the reality of what he’s seeing, that the trousers are unsalvageable. The pant leg is shorn from ankle to thigh, the edges ragged, a broad swath of fabric missing entirely. Probably stuck to the wreckage of the shuttle craft, along with the skin it took.

And that, of course, is what grips Hux with such horror that he leans to the side and breathes heavily through his nose to combat the bile rising in his throat.

Dameron must have used every last drop of bacta in the medical kit to cover it, that length of leg laid bare. One day had been enough for the organic compounds in the healing gel to regenerate a thin layer of skin over most of the damage, though that skin is pink and raw and beading with blood. In other areas, Hux can see bone.

_Shameful_ , he thinks around his rapidly beating heart, the dots of black swimming across his vision. _Pull yourself together._

But along with those thoughts, others.

_I’ll never survive this. Only a matter of time. Infection. Dehydration, starvation, hypothermia. I can’t move. I can’t defend myself. I can’t I can’t—_

He draws in a sharp breath, closing his eyes in one hard blink before forcing himself upright.

Well. If he’s going to die he’s not going to lay down for it. He’ll fight it every step of the way.

The galaxy has been trying to beat him his entire life, he tells himself. How is this anything new? Just another hurdle to overcome and when he does he’ll stand at the top of the hill and laugh at those beneath him. Though he might need a cane to do it.

Right. Well. Self-pity accomplished, time to move on to the second task on his to-do list. The comm unit.

Hux takes another steadying breath and pushes away thoughts of his leg injury. He reaches over and drags the heater to his side.

The little device is nearly out of power. It comes equipped with a solar-powered charging unit but judging by the wan grey light Hux can glimpse through the cave opening the atmosphere is less than ideal for that, and they’ll have little use for it any longer.

He strips the back panel away and sets to work.

Even as he pulls various components apart and arranges them neatly by his side he knows he won’t have what he needs without the transmitter from the shuttle craft. But if nothing else this gives him something to do, some small modicum of control over the situation while he waits for Dameron to return.

And wait he must.

As the hours creep past and the light fades, Hux grows increasingly distracted. He tries to gain a bit of fitful rest between working on the comm unit but the ever-present pain makes it nearly impossible to achieve sleep. A nagging worry has taken root in the corners of his mind and he finds himself drumming nervously against his good leg, gaze twitching to the cave entrance again and again.

Finally, night comes, and true panic sets in.

Dameron has left him here.

He’s either dead or he’s gone—found some way out of this mess and left Hux here, completely helpless and facing the ignominious and torturous death by starvation and exposure. And of course Dameron has abandoned him. Hux would have done the same, given half the chance.

The temperature plummets as the light drains away. Soon his hands are shaking too much to handle the small electronic components and he puts them to the side, wrapping his arms around himself.

Dameron has to come back. He _has_ to. If he doesn’t—

He has to.

He has to.

Hux is bent in half over his crossed arms, huddled up as much as he can manage around his leg, when he hears something large moving outside the cave.

He jerks up, shoulders jumping with unrepressed shudders. He blinks incoherently as a shadow moves across the entrance, indeterminate against the encroaching dark of night, his mind stuttering and stiff as if it, too, has been frozen by the cold. He fumbles for his knife before remembering that it’s gone—Dameron hadn’t seen fit to put _that_ within his reach—then scrambles for the emergency light source from the kit. He sweeps the beam across the cave entrance, the light shaky from his trembling hands.

“Just me, Hugsy!”

The jaunty voice echoes through the cave ahead of Dameron’s hunched figure. He comes bearing an armful of wood—broken, twisted branches and piles of bark for kindling. The pilot blinks against the harsh light. His face is dirt- and sweat-streaked and he looks exhausted.

Somehow, the sight is more gratifying than Hux could ever have imagined. He doesn’t even think to be suspicious, simply sags backward with a sigh, grateful to see that infuriating grin.

“You’re here.” Hux can’t keep the relief from his voice. Something in Dameron’s expression softens.

“Yeah, of course I’m here. You didn’t think I’d leave a hot redhead like you here alone?”

Hux blinks, swaying. His senses are dulled by cold and pain and hunger—he hadn’t managed to eat more than half a rations bar, stomach clenching with nausea every time he tried to swallow—and Dameron’s words are all but incomprehensible to him.

Dropping the wood into a heap, Dameron puts his hand on Hux’s cheek and draws back with a hiss.

“Kriff! Hugs, you’re freezing. What did you do to the heater?”

“It was dead anyway,” Hux gasps. “And I’m—trying to get us off this planet, unlike you.” He barely manages to grind out the words through his chattering teeth.

“You’d waste your last breath insulting me, wouldn’t ya?” Dameron clucks his tongue and shakes his head even as he quickly gathers up the extra blanket and bundles it around Hux’s shoulders, folding it together at his chest. “Well don’t worry, I’m gonna get a fire going.”

“The—” Hux has to pause, swallow to keep from coughing as the dry air threatens to stick in his throat. “The shuttle, did you—”

“Nah, couldn’t make it there before sundown.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

Hux lets his head fall back against the rock. He’s not sure he can take much more of this—the uncertainty most of all, not knowing if the transmitter is even salvageable, if there is even the remotest possibility of saving himself from this hell he’s found himself in.

“Hey—Listen.” Dameron is making quick work towards getting a fire going, piling up the wood and sifting through the survival pack for the firestarter kit. But he pauses long enough to command Hux’s attention, his gaze stern and forthright, more serious than Hux has ever seen him. “Hux. We’re gonna get out of this, alright? You know that, don’t you?”

Hux shakes his head, lips pressed together into a pinched expression.

“We are. You and me, we’re gonna make it. I promise.”

Dameron uses a striking motion to light the kindling—a flash of warm light flaring in the dark cave once, twice, then catching. A glow that illuminates his face as he’s crouched over it, blowing softly into the growing flames. Hux watches, transfixed by the scene.

“We’re gonna make it,” Dameron is saying, to himself as much as Hux. “Tomorrow I’ll go back to the shuttle and get the transmitter. You’ll fix it up right cuz you’re some kind of evil engineering genius. We’ll call our friends, get off this rock, and—”

“And?” Hux whispers into the sudden silence. _Whose friends?_ He wants to ask, and _what then?_

“And we’ll be alive.” Dameron’s expression turns grim and Hux finds himself missing the lightheartedness he’d so despised that morning. “That’s all we gotta worry about right now.”

The flames grow, licking upwards from the fast-burning kindling. The larger branches start to crackle and snap and glow and a tiny flush of warmth beckons. Hux leans towards it instinctively.

“And if we’re here for a while, we’ll make do.” Dameron stands and brushes off his hands, his trousers, looking pleased with himself. Running his hands through his hair and looking down at the fire as if daring it to go out, knowing that this is one hurdle he has overcome. “I saw some critters out there. If worst comes to worst and we run out of those sawdust sticks your people call rations then I’m sure I can take out a few with my blaster.”

Hux stares into the fire.

“Did you eat anything today?”

A listlessness settles over Hux, heavy as the thickest quilt but lacking its warmth. He can’t muster up the energy to answer.

Dameron kneels at his side, places a hand on his shoulder. He’s found the half-eaten rations bar from earlier and tries placing it in Hux’s hand, but Hux can’t make his fingers grasp it.

_What’s the point?_ He thinks. It’s simply delaying the inevitable.

“You need to eat.” He must be imagining the thread of worry in Dameron’s voice—no one has ever spoken to him in this manner, though Hux has dreamt of it. Wishing for someone, anyone, to care whether he lives or dies. Of course even if Dameron is concerned about him it’s not really because he cares for Hux—who could? He only wants a way off this planet and he’s too stupid to repair the transmitter himself.

“Why.” Hux’s voice is flat. He doesn’t lift his gaze from the ground. He doesn’t even know why he’s asking.

“C’mon, man, don’t do that. You know why. Listen, I got some pieces of wood that might do for a splint, alright? Just like you asked?”

Hux does tear his gaze away then, slowly lifting his head until he can search Dameron’s face, wondering at the earnestness in his dark brown eyes, the crinkle in his brow. That expression—Hux inhales sharply, absorbing it like a punch to the gut.

No. There’s no way this Resistance pilot could possibly be worried about _him._

He lets his head drop again and stares into the flames. His stomach clenches painfully at every thought of food and he has to press his lips together and swallow desperately against the rising tide of nausea, spurred by the tremors that shake his lean frame, the pain that threatens to drown all other sensation.

“You must be loving this,” Hux says with a bitter laugh. He knows he would take immense satisfaction in seeing his enemies brought this low: trembling, helpless, nearly weeping from pain and hunger and with no end to their torment in sight.

“Why,” Dameron’s voice is soft, careful, “would I love this?”

Hux shakes his head. Dameron is a fool. A simple, kindhearted fool—

He squeezes his eyes shut against the realization.

Dameron is kind.

_Weak,_ his father’s voice insists. _Ripe for the slaughter. Use him and discard him._

Dameron turns his back on Hux to rifle through the wood pile and Hux imagines plunging his blade into Dameron’s back.

The thought brings his ever-present nausea to a point and he leans away from the fire to heave.

Dimly Hux is aware of Dameron’s hand on his shoulder as he heaves again, expelling nothing but a small amount of bile that disgusts him as soon as he sees it splatter against the cave floor.

_Fucking—disgusting, pathetic,_ **_messy_ ** _, worthless—_

He dry heaves twice more before he is finished. He almost falls forward but Dameron rights him, sets his back against the wall, and Hux squeezes his watering eyes shut, panting, a thin sheen of sweat forming on his temple.

“Okay, okay,” Dameron is saying, “We’ll do the splint tomorrow, just—”

“No,” Hux rasps, rolling his head side to side. “Please, it—it needs to be done now. Been too long already.”

“Hux, I—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Hux forces his eyes open. Dameron looks scared and for some unfathomable reason that makes Hux’s stomach twist.

“It’s alright,” he says, the shape of the words unfamiliar on his tongue. “Neither do I.” Hux’s eyes roll to the ceiling and he swallows. “Get the wood.”

Over the next ten minutes Hux marshals every last bit of energy and every scrap of medical knowledge he possesses to instruct Dameron in lining up the flat pieces of wood on either side of his leg, readying the various lengths of cable left over from the impromptu sled he’d used to drag Hux from the crash site to secure it all together.

Hux’s ankle is twisted to the side, his broken leg noticeably shorter than the other. Hux readies himself for the agony to come and describes how Dameron should twist the ankle and pull, hoping the bones will slot themselves into place.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Dameron says, his voice wavering, and Hux thinks that he’s never seen such discomposure from the cocksure pilot before.

“Ready.”

Hux doesn’t even have the chance to cry out.

He simply gasps, his vision greying out while a roaring sound swells in his ears and oddly, insanely, his last thought is of the ocean before he loses consciousness completely.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fragile trust is broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, thank you for all of your kind words on the last chapter. <3 I definitely needed the little confidence boost. I actually feel pretty good about this chapter--buckle up! XD

Poe doesn’t try to wake Hux when he passes out. It’s certainly more merciful to let him have this interlude from consciousness while Poe finishes fashioning the splint, the thing looking crude and woefully insufficient to the task of holding Hux together. He works with a grim set to his mouth, trying to forget the sound of Hux’s bones clicking when he twisted the ankle back into place.

Well, hopefully it’s back into place.

When it’s done he rocks back on his heels, then plops unceremoniously onto his rump, bringing his hands up to cover his face.

He takes a few deep breaths. He’s shaking.

Poe had some basic medical training before joining the Resistance but, honestly, it wasn’t a priority for someone in his position. It was more likely that he or the pilots under his command would die instantly in a fiery explosion than sustain an injury—and if they did, he never had to take control of their medical care.

He doesn’t dare hope that what he’s done for Hux will be good enough—except it has to be. He’s done all he could.

Poe lifts his head, one hand sliding down to cover his mouth as he looks at Hux.

The general looks awful. He’s pale, with deep bruises under his eyes, and his breathing is shallow, uneven. His hair is completely disheveled, which probably shouldn’t be high on Poe’s priority list of things to notice about him, but it somehow makes him look so much less like himself that in some ways it’s as if General Hux is already gone.

Poe realizes he is terrified that the other man will die.

It’s no longer something he can keep at bay—he’s _worried_ about Hux.

_Well of course I am_ , he thinks to himself. He’s not a kriffing monster. And Hux is in so much pain and he’s so—

Scared _._

_Just like all of those people were scared when they saw his super weapon pointed at them, knowing they were doomed? Just like all those families were scared when the First Order took their children to make them into soldiers like Finn? Like those villagers on Jakku were scared? Like Rose was scared when she realized her sister might not be coming back?_

And that last, of course, was just as much Poe’s fault as it was Hux’s.

Poe watches Hux’s face, half of it lit by the flickering fire, the other half cast in shadow.

And it really is unfair how completely defenseless he looks like this. How utterly unlike the man Poe thought he knew. How underneath all of those threats of violence, all of that acerbic wit, there is someone who would say things like _‘You’re here’,_ and _‘It’s alright.’_

No. Nothing about this is fair.

Poe cleans up the little mess Hux had made when he was sick, grimacing not at the bile—he’s seen worse—but at how insubstantial the dark wet patch is, as if even in the throes of illness Hux obeyed some unquestionable imperative to make himself small. Poe remembers how he bit his own hand to keep from crying out in pain. Like a hunted creature trying to evade detection—stay small, stay hidden. Poe doesn’t want to think about what that implies for Hux’s life, especially alongside the bravado (now false, he’s certain) of his Starkiller speech.

It’s none of his business, he reminds himself.

He moves down to check a final time that the binding on the splint is secure. As he bends over Hux’s leg, he feels something slip out of his jacket pocket, clattering on the stone ground. Poe reaches for it but finds to his surprise—and soon, dismay—that Hux is already holding it up, inspecting it in the orange glare of the fire.

The data stick.

“So this is it,” Hux whispers. His eyes are glassy, his expression completely unreadable. Poe swallows. He feels like he’s been caught, somehow, and suppresses the urge to reach out and snatch the slim black object from Hux’s trembling grasp.

Hux’s eyes slide from the data stick to Poe. To the fire.

“Hux.” Poe’s tongue darts out to part his lips, suddenly dry. “Give—give it to me.”

“Why.”

Hux laughs—short-lived, breathy, and nowhere near reaching his eyes, no smile in sight. His lips are in a rictus of pain, of—something Poe can’t name. Poe’s hand tightens on the splint, the cord biting in to Hux’s thigh.

Hux gasps, eyes widening.

“I said,” Poe clears his throat. “Give it to me, Hux. Please. Or I’m gonna have to take it.”

“This is what you want?” Hux looks at the data stick again in a way that makes Poe wonder exactly how lucid he is. “This—this little thing, this is what you took from my ship? This is why we’re here?”

“It’s important.” Poe flinches—that is clearly the wrong thing to say, as anything that is important to him must be dangerous to Hux. And Hux knows that.

Still. Poe wants to find a way for this to—for it to not _be_ like this. He wants Hux to hand over the data stick of his own accord, has no idea why that could possibly matter but for some reason it does. It matters so much, this moment, as if everything Poe has done in this war—as if every blaster and cannon in the galaxy trained on each other for so many years is distilled into this single interaction, as if Hux just giving the data stick to Poe could bring the dead back to life.

Hux moves more quickly than Poe would have thought possible from someone in his present condition.

Poe is familiar with the phenomenon of time slowing down—it happens for him often when he’s in the cockpit. His thumb hovers over the trigger and he exhales, eyes and hands syncing with his beating heart as he takes aim and fires.

Unhelpfully, time seems to speed _up_ as Hux twists his arm and flings the data stick into the fire, that motion just as quick and vicious as when he’d thrown the rations bar at Poe, and Poe is left to scramble and lunge for it.

His feet hook on Hux’s injured leg and Hux roars in pain. Poe’s chest slams into the ground, hand held out although he knows he has fallen short even before his wide eyes watch in horror as the slim black case sails into the fire.

An inarticulate shout erupts from Poe.

_No no no it can’t all be for nothing no no no—_

He scrambles to his feet and jolts forward, sticking his hands into the fire in quick little strikes, fighting the searing heat to bat at the data stick until it finally tumbles free of the flames and lies smoking on the cold floor.

Silence descends on the cave, bracketed only by the howling wind outside and the pounding of Poe’s heart.

He kneels over the data stick, afraid to touch it, panting with exhilaration. After a few seconds he’s able to pick it up—the backs of his knuckles are raw where he brushed too long against a burning log but otherwise his hands are fine, just trembling, more than they ever had at the height of any battle he’s ever fought.

There’s still this sense of dread magic draped over the moment, everything heightened, sharpened. Dimly he’s aware that this might be hunger and exhaustion speaking, making dull moments into epic struggles, so poignant they slice at his subconscious—but that doesn’t change the fact that Poe feels as if he’s reaching slowly for a talisman that had once afforded him elemental protection but now may be so broken that its powers have inverted and it thus can only do harm from here on out.

Poe picks it up. The case is warped along one edge, marred by little bubbles of overheated plastic. A sinking feeling of despair pulls at his heels and his breath comes quicker, eyes wide in desperation. But the more he looks at it, turning it over in his hands, the more he thinks that it might just be superficial damage.

There’s a chance the data is safe. Salvageable—whenever he manages to get it back to the Resistance, if it’s not too late by then to be of use.

Anger surges in him and he stands, wheeling around to tower over Hux.

“Tomorrow, I’m gonna go to that shuttle and get the transmitter.” His eyes are hard as he points a finger at Hux, who can only look up at him, face twisted in pain and bitter anger. “ _You’re_ gonna fix it up or I swear to the Maker I’ll drag your sorry ass out of this cave and let you freeze to death.”

Hux snarls up at him. He says nothing.

Poe’s anger builds and builds.

“Why did you do that?” He shouts. “What could you possibly have to gain from it? I’ve been _helping_ you, damn it! I thought—”

“You thought what?” Hux spits. “That I would be so desperate for your pity I would forsake my oath to the Order? If you think a few kind words are enough to make me betray everything I’ve worked for my entire life then you’re a bigger fool than I ever suspected!”

“But you—” Poe cuts himself off to growl inarticulately, tugging at his hair with the hand that isn’t clutching pathetically at the data stick like it’s his own heart that Hux ripped out of his chest and tossed into the fire like so much garbage. Something that he hasn’t thought about since they crashed jumps to mind and he latches on to it, anything to take away this feeling of betrayal laced with anger at himself for being so fucking stupid as to think that the man at his feet is anything other than a vicious little murderer.

“On the ship.” Poe blows out a long breath, trying to calm himself down, recapture some semblance of a conversation rather than a shouting match. “You seemed—you seemed to _want_ me to take you away.”

It sounds ridiculous at first, but the more Poe talks, remembering the odd moment when Hux stood outside the hangar with his hand hovering over the data pad, the more sure of himself he becomes.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not.” Poe frowns. “You tried to stab me twice after we’d crashed. Why not on the shuttle? Or before that, when I put my blaster down to put on the stormtrooper armor? You had a hundred chances to take me out before we even left the ship but you didn’t. You didn’t, you _wanted_ this—some part of you must have! So _why are you still fighting me?_ ”

Hux’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. Poe is more taken aback by this than anything that has happened so far. He’s quite certain he’s never seen Hux speechless. Hux takes a couple of short, quick breaths, and when his gaze darts wildly around the cave he bears a striking resemblance to a small but feral and fanged creature caught in a trap.

Poe waits, crossing his arms. When Hux finally speaks it is in a low, halting voice.

“I owe you no explanation.”

“Kriff that!” Poe explodes. His voice cracks, near hysteria. “I’ve done everything for you since we crashed! Without me you’d be dead! You owe me _everything_.”

“ _You’re the reason I’m here!_ ”

“NO, _you_ are!” Poe stabs a finger at him. “If it weren’t for you being such an insufferable little shit then maybe Kylo Ren wouldn’t have tried to shoot you, his own general, out of the kriffing sky!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“You know what I think?” And now Poe has lost any sense of composure he may have had. Now he is hurting, and he wants to lash out, to turn this hurt out of himself and foist it on the only other person on this sorry, sad moon. “I think you’re a vicious, hateful little beast who wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit him on the nose. I think you lead a sad and empty little life and you want to kill anything better than you so you can stand back and laugh and finally feel like you’re big. But you’re not! You’re _nothing!_ ”

Poe breathes heavily through his nose, nearly blind with fury.

“You’re nothing. And when we finally get off this rock and I give _this_ ,” he waves the data stick, “to the Resistance, we’ll know where to hit the First Order, where it hurts. We’ll _destroy_ you once and for all and no one like you will _ever_ be able to hurt people again.”

At first, Poe has the absurd thought that Hux is crying. His shoulders are shaking and he’s—

“You fool,” he laughs. “You utter fool. You think, if you take down the First Order, that bad people will simply cease to exist? Get a grip, Dameron. People suffer under your precious Republic just as much as they suffered under the Empire, and they’ll continue to do so even if every last First Order officer and stormtrooper is wiped from the galaxy.” Hux wheezes, bending over and hugging his arms tight around himself, struggling to breathe around his laughter.

It’s an awful sound, that makes Poe want to cover his ears, to shake Hux until he stops.

“People hurt people.” Hux gasps around peals of laughter that seem fierce enough to break him apart. “That’s just the way of things. Welcome to the real world, Dameron.”

“Fuck you,” Poe says, because he has no idea what to say to that, what to say about any of this. Because for all of his ranting and all of his rage he is still here with Hux, the two of them the only people left in this pathetic and cold little corner of the galaxy, and the wind is howling outside the cave and the cold wrapping around him like the herald of death and Poe is lost.

He sinks to his knees, looking at the ground. He’s lost in an awful and empty place with nothing but a wounded monster for company.

Cradling the data stick in his hands, Poe squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out his own words. They seem to echo in the cave, reverberating back to him in all their useless vitriol. He doesn’t feel like himself, doesn’t know how to get back the person who deals with tough situations with a jaunty shrug and a laugh and a joke that makes his friends roll their eyes.

Maybe that person only exists around his friends. Maybe Poe isn’t really a person, all on his own—instead he’s just a rippling, unstable reflection of the nearest source of truth, no matter how ugly and mean. Maybe around Hux, he’s just another little monster. He feels like one.

Hux’s bitter laughter grates at Poe’s nerves. He draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, huddling near the fire, his back to the cold.

Eventually Hux seems to wear himself out, his hysterical laughter tapering off into wheezing breaths that frost in the cold air in front of him. Poe grimaces.

“You sound sick.” He tries to spit the words, turn them into an insult, but even to his own ears he just sounds grudgingly concerned.

“Oh,” Hux chuckles darkly, the fire reflecting in his pale eyes, “I am. Very much so.”

“Not—like that.” Poe rolls his eyes, grumbling to himself. “You’re impossible.”

He hunches over, wrapping his arms even more tightly around himself and staring into the fire. All of his anger is gone and in its wake is—nothing. He feels empty.

“You were right, you know.”

Poe lifts his head.

Hux is staring into the fire, too. The flames are like a curtain between them, falling upward.

“About what?” Poe asks tiredly, when Hux falls silent. Hux seems to rouse himself from some sort of trance.

“About me. Who I am.” Hux strains toward the fire, clearly freezing, unable to do more than turn his face in towards the heat and lean forward a bit. Poe feels a brief surge of sympathy and considers getting up to help Hux inch a bit closer—but, still bitter over the damage to his talisman, he brushes the thought aside. Let him freeze, Poe thinks, he deserves it.

“Vicious,” Hux says, savoring the word. “Hateful. Don’t act like you’ve discovered some grand secret by telling me what I’ve heard all my life. You’re not special, Dameron, for seeing what everyone else can see. In fact I think it’s taken you longer than most to catch on.”

“Hux—”

“You can never trust me. I will fight you every step of the way. It’s just…who I am.” The last words drop with such a deep sense of weariness that Poe feels it in his chest, as if the declaration took everything out of Hux but is so greedy that it would take from Poe as well. He sighs, scrubbing at his beard—coming in quickly now, after just a day or so of inattention.

“You know, weirdly, that makes you sound kinda trustworthy.”

Hux’s eyes widen at that, and Poe again has the insane urge to close the distance between them.

“Look, I’m not really proud of all that stuff I said, okay?”

“Don’t.” Hux shuts his eyes, tipping his head so that a chunk of bright hair, blood red in this light, falls forward to obscure his left eye, brushing his high cheekbone and the bridge of his nose. And Poe does not want to smooth it back, tuck it behind his ears. He absolutely does not. “Please. Don’t try to take it back.”

“Okay.” Even though Poe would really, really like to. Try, at least. He should be building up Hux’s trust in him, not tearing the other man down. And Hux _looks_ worn down, like if Poe turns away for even a second he might look back to find that nothing remains but that rumpled greatcoat and the homemade splint lying, deflated and vacant, on the ground. Poe doesn’t like feeling responsible for that.

But Poe leaves it alone because Hux just tilts his head until it rests against the cave wall, his expression pinched and unhappy and as bone-weary as Poe feels.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there in silence. He steals glances up at Hux, catches the other man’s eyes sliding shut a few times, though Hux rouses himself with a little shake each time, blinking as he stares determinedly into the fire. Maybe he still suspects that Poe will try to hurt him if he lets himself sleep.

“I found a river,” Poe says at one point, rubbing at his eyes. He yawns.

“What?”

“Nothin’, just…found a river. I could refill the canteens tomorrow.” He’s already tired, thinking about all he has to do come morning.

“You need to sleep.” Hux sniffs, and draws himself up a bit, and Poe almost smiles. He looks a little less beaten now, a little more like the crisp officer issuing orders. “I’ll keep the fire going.”

“You sure? You need your rest too.” Poe squints at Hux. In the flickering orange firelight it’s hard to tell, but he thinks Hux’s cheeks look flushed, his gaze still glassy and a bit unfocused.

“Don’t be foolish. All I do is rest. One of us should keep watch anyway. Last night was a mistake.” Hux’s throat bobs at that. “A critical error in judgment for which I take full responsibility considering your lack of command experience. Comparatively,” he adds, when Poe opens his mouth to argue that he is, in fact, technically a general in his own right. “I was compromised.”

“You were seriously injured, yeah.” And damn it, if Poe isn’t smiling. Just the smallest little twitch of his mouth, the corner turning up against his will. Though it wilts, of course, when Hux refuses to meet his gaze.

He tries a few more times to object, through jaw-cracking yawns, but his resolve weakens upon considering the daunting prospect of tomorrow’s trip to the crash site _and_ the river, which lie in opposite directions from the cave.

Poe lies down and tries to fall asleep. The fire seems more a curse than a blessing: a source of heat, yes, but so painfully concentrated that while his face pricks and burns his back and legs are freezing. Goosebumps crawl across his skin, pulling him apart, and soon Poe is shivering violently, unable to get any closer to the fire without singeing his clothes and hair, the wind howling at his back. He draws his knees up to his chest, pulls the blanket tight around him and closes his eyes, but nothing soothes away the cold.

Finally, exhausted, hungry, and so, so cold, Poe looks up at Hux.

The other man is hunched over so far that he looks in danger of falling into the fire. His eyes are open and he leans against the wall but keeps flinching away from it, and Poe can imagine how the cold stone must bite. He knows that the last thing Hux wants right now is for Poe to touch him—but Poe tries anyway, unable to keep the desperation from his voice.

“Hux,” he rasps. “Please.”

At first he isn’t certain Hux heard him. Then the other man gives a terse nod, his mouth pulling down into a deep frown.

“Come here.”

Poe scrambles to his feet, shaking so badly he almost trips over his feet and straight into the fire. As he comes around to Hux’s side he wants to take it slowly but he’s so cold, it’s everywhere, he has to get away from it.

He lets out a choked sigh of relief when Hux grabs at him, too.

Poe can’t help the desperate way he clutches at Hux’s arms, kneeling in front of him, murmuring nonsense comfort words as he lowers Hux to the ground, careful of his injured leg, so Poe can lay out beside him.

Hux is shaking just as badly as Poe, if not more. His arms jerk as he pulls Poe into a hasty embrace, his head bowing in to Poe’s chest, seeking warmth. Poe hisses when the tip of Hux’s frozen nose finds his neck. Hux jerks back a fraction.

“No, it’s okay,” Poe bites out, one hand cupping the back of Hux’s head to keep him there while the other works quickly to tuck both of their blankets around both of them so that they’re cocooned together. “It’s just—it’s how we’re gonna survive, alright?” He knows Hux needs this—the reminder that they have no choice but to come together in this way, that Hux isn’t a traitor (and neither is Poe), that they need this to make it through the night, that it’s not Hux’s fault.

The space under the blankets starts to warm up quickly. Hux’s expression is pinched and he grunts in the back of his throat as his ceaseless shivering jolts his splinted leg.

“Do you—do you need another—” Poe looks around for the medical kit, already dreading the thought of leaving Hux’s warmth to retrieve another painkiller.

“No.” Hux grunts again, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. “No, there’s only two left and I—need to be able to concentrate when we have—the transmitter—”

“I’ll get it tomorrow. I’ll get it Hux, don’t worry, just—just try to rest.”

Hux curls in to him. Their chests are pressed together, so Poe feels it when Hux shudders and lets out something between a whimper and a sob.

“I hate you.” Hux clutches at Poe, keeping him close, holding on to the warmth like a drowning man clinging to a raft. He sobs again—no tears, just a dry sound torn from his chest, made worse by the way Hux tries to keep it in. “I hate you, I hate you.”

“I know.”

Poe lets himself cradle the other man. Only the top of his head pokes out from the blankets; his breath heats up the air between them, feels good as it bounces off of Hux’s hair and back against Poe’s chin. Hux’s nose is warm now, still tucked against Poe’s neck.

Poe realizes he isn’t even shivering anymore. It’s the last thing he thinks, before exhaustion drags him down into the dark: that this works so well, it was stupid of them to ever try to avoid it. They should have done this from the start.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the longest chapter so far. A lot happens, I should have cut some of it and I didn’t. 
> 
> Let’s see *opens the hood* we’ve got some necessary survival chores, some unnecessary feelings, and what is probably approaching Hux!whump. If you’re not a fan of that don’t worry, this is as bad as it gets.
> 
> Also, thanks for sticking with me through a slow and inconsistent update schedule. The past few weeks have been kind of hard on my family and writing was the last thing on my mind for a while. Things are better now but I am and will remain a slow writer. I haven't abandoned the fic, I just want to get it right. :) In addition to that, some of my time has gone into organizing Gingerpilot Week. If you haven’t heard of it, go check out the Tumblr or Twitter (both @gingerpilotweek) for more details. We’re having it in July and I hope some of you can participate. :) 
> 
> All of your comments and love mean so much to me and definitely keep me going, so thank you. <3

Poe swims up toward consciousness only when the heat beneath the blanket becomes too much. He extricates an arm from their tangled mass of limbs and works it free of his jacket, then flings it out into the blessedly cool air, breathing out a sigh of relief as his sore knuckles press against the stone.

He falls back asleep then, nestling in to the warm body wrapped around him.

Poe wakes again when that body twitches against him.

He knows immediately that something is wrong—not just from the muffled sounds of distress as Hux jerks in the throes of a nightmare but from the way his forehead is damp and hot, pressed against Poe’s arm.

“Kriff.” He places a hand on Hux’s forehead, unthinkingly moving a few limp strands of hair from his face to do it. Hux is sweating profusely and shivering in the sickening heat. A fever. Poe’s stomach drops.

He supposes he should feel stupid, for the way he clutches at Hux now—holding him close as if the threat is something external that his embrace has any chance of warding off, as if he doesn’t know exactly who Hux is and what he’s done. But in these groggy moments post-sleep Hux is simply his small, warm thing to hold, on this desolate and cracked moon where warm things are precious. Poe already feels the urge to guard his jealously.

And that’s what Poe thinks, possessive and fierce in light of this new day that brings him only a further challenge to Hux’s health: to the stars or the Maker or the Force or whatever is out there moving things, he thinks: _you can’t take this, it’s mine._

“Don’t,” Hux mutters in a broken voice, eyes shut. He twitches again, wincing as if from a blow.

“Hux, wake up.”

“N—don’t. No.”

That voice can’t belong to Hux. It’s small, terrified.

Poe strokes his hair, because that is what you do for small and terrified things. Hux tilts his head into the touch.

“Mother.” Hux shivers, overly warm. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go.”

Poe is stricken. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. His heart is in his throat, blocking any words. He has the sudden wild thought that the last person to touch Hux like this must have been his mother, and it makes Poe want to pull away, feeling that he’s tread on something sacred, something that isn’t his.

But instead, defiant and reckless and nearly high on the idea that he might be _helping_ at last, he doubles down and presses his lips to the top of Hux’s head in something that is not quite a kiss.

Hux lets out a long sigh, and falls silent. Poe pats his arm, trying to sort out his own emotions, finding himself caught in a thin sort of terror—like this nameless fear is just a film stretched almost to the point of breaking over something more profound. He wonders what happened to Hux’s mother—if she’d simply left the house one day and had never returned, like his own.

A moment later Hux stirs again, this time with a little groan as he blinks rapidly against the morning light filtering into the cave.

“Dameron.” He’s panting, eyes half-lidded, then flickering shut. He drags his head back a few inches, and Poe knows that if he were able to he’d roll away from Poe entirely. If he were able to, he’d run.

“You’re sick,” Poe says stupidly, and winces, waiting for the biting response. It never comes.

“Hux?” Poe shifts and starts to sit up. Hux is boneless in his arms, and it’s not apparent if he’s really awake.

“ _Kriff.”_

Poe slips his arm out from under Hux and stumbles to his feet. Rushing over to the medical kit, he starts pawing through the supplies, turning the packages over to read the labels, searching for anything that might help.

He picks up a blister package of antibiotics. That sounds right, doesn’t it? If Hux has a fever maybe it’s caused by an infection in his leg?

“I’ve got no fucking idea,” Poe answers himself, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, quelling a sudden urge to punch the wall.

On the back of the antibiotics package are a few instructions, and a warning. _Take with food._ Of-kriffing-course.

Hux definitely needs to eat something. The man was skinny before they even crashed here and since then Poe is pretty sure he’s used more food as a projectile than he’s actually consumed. But if Hux didn’t have the stomach for the ration bars before, Poe can’t imagine him eating them now…

At the bottom of the survival pack he finds a few promising-looking pouches, and lets out a breath of relief. Good, this will have to do.

He grabs a canteen and returns to Hux, lifting the other man from the ground and holding him against his chest when he tilts to the side. Somehow he convinces Hux to take an antibiotic, and the lack of suspicious, paranoid posturing on Hux’s part is worrying in itself. Hux is listless, almost unresponsive.

Still, he presses his lips tightly together and gives a little shake of his head when Poe coaxes him with the liquid rations.

“Hux!” He explodes, his frantic shout echoing in the cave. “It’s been two days and you’ve eaten, what, half a rations bar?” He’s not sure how well Hux understands him so he brings the nutrient pouch to Hux’s lips again, biting off a growl of frustration when Hux grimaces and turns his head aside.

“You need to eat or you’re going to die. _Please,_ Hux. Don’t do this to me.”

Hux must hear the selfishness in Poe’s plea and be amused by it: his shoulders jump as he huffs out a single laugh. Poe rolls his eyes, though he’s secretly relieved at this small sign of life.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh at me all you want.” Oddly, he’s smiling as well. “That’s how I know you’re not already dead.”

Although Hux’s head is heavy on Poe’s shoulder, his body lax with exhaustion, eventually he rouses himself enough to take the straw in his mouth and suck some of the contents from the pouch. Poe interprets the look of grim distaste to have more to do with Hux’s utter helplessness than the bland taste of the emergency rations. But at least he’s eating. That alone is enough to loosen the tight coil of anxiety in Poe’s chest.

“That’s good. That’s real good, Hugs.” He pushes more of Hux’s sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. “Want some water?”

Hux doesn’t respond. Frowning, Poe gives him a little shake, and Hux tilts his head back to blink blearily up at him.

His eyes are red-rimmed and overly-bright. A hot flush darkens his pale complexion, burning high on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. His forehead glistens with sweat, a few darkened strands of hair still clinging to his brow. Hux shivers violently despite the heat radiating off of him. His expression is open, unguarded—pained and so, so tired, as if those eyes have seen the births of star systems as well as their demise.

Poe can’t breathe.

He’s suddenly filled with so many desires—he wants to clutch Hux even tighter to his side, to cradle his cheek, to press his nose to the top of Hux’s head, bury his face in the other man’s hair, to wrap himself around Hux or Hux around him or _something_ , anything, _more._

Poe swallows around a lump in his throat, and picks up the canteen.

After a few awkward attempts he manages to get some water into Hux. Then, somewhat hesitantly, he relinquishes his hold on the other man, lowering him gently back down to the ground. Hux still can’t sit up on his own and he seems to be washing in and out of consciousness.

Poe wants to stay with him. It’s almost a physical pain to tear himself away, to start gathering himself for the trip outside the cave. But he has to go. He’s the only one who can do the things that need doing to ensure their survival. It’s all on him.

He allows himself a moment to kneel beside Hux, his heart in his throat as he tries not to think about why this is so hard.

Hux peels an eye open to look at him. His hand makes a feeble scratching motion at the ground, sliding an inch closer to Poe.

“Don’t go.”

The desperation in Hux’s voice roots him to the ground. It’s the same voice that begged his mother not to leave him in his dreams.

“I have to, buddy. Remember? The transmitter? And we’re almost out of water.” After biting his lip for a moment, Poe leans forward and strokes Hux’s hair back from his damp face. His thumb lingers over the arch of one eyebrow before he pulls back, balling his hand into a fist. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”

Hux shivers and closes his eyes.

Poe is rapidly discovering that whenever he’s outside the cave, he wishes he were back with Hux.

He doesn’t know what it is. The landscape is certainly bleak and lonely but Poe has been lonely before. He thinks of hours spent sitting in the cockpit of his X-wing with the expansive void of deep space all around him, waiting to be called in to action with nothing but time on his hands, his own thoughts to keep him company.

That’s not so different than this, is it? And he’s always felt better under the open sky—so why does leaving the dark recess of the cave feel like inviting danger? He grits his teeth and presses on, fighting the impression that he’s casting himself out into cold waters that could pull him, riptide-like, too far from land for any hope of return.

In what is perhaps a desperate bid to comfort himself, he imagines if Hux were beside him, what the other man would say. He’d probably be hunched over with that pinched expression of disdain as he looked around at the vast nothingness here. Poe would tease him about how he’s not allowed to be disappointed in his surroundings, that the galaxy isn’t made to order, that they’re lucky to be alive. And Hux would roll his eyes and say something insulting but Poe would welcome it, he would, he’d take any little bit of the old Hux that he could.

Surely, that means he’s losing his mind.

In a quick debate with himself over how to prioritize this mission when the river and the shuttle lie in opposite directions from the cave, Poe goes to the shuttle first. It may be stupid—surely renewing their supply of water is the priority here—but he’ll be damned if he’s not going to bring the transmitter back to Hux today.

It’s a long walk, and the wind pushes him back as if to say that every step he takes away from the cave is a mistake. Not for the first time, the howling of the wind in his ears reminds him almost of a mourning voice, like a warning of lost things that find no rest in this barren place. Almost as if a careful ear could pick out individual words.

Soon Poe is shivering. The tip of his nose is frozen and his cheeks burn from the bite of wind by the time the wreckage comes into view.

All told, it’s a fruitful trip. The fire has long ago put itself out, and Poe finds the cockpit is almost entirely intact. Extracting the long-range transmitter is little trouble.

He has a stroke of genius as he searches the rest of the shuttle for emergency supplies he might have missed when he’d been rushing to extract Hux from the fire. He finds a few canvas sacks and a plastic bin—then, deep in the recess of the storage compartment, a short axe and a collapsible shovel.

“Kriff yeah,” Poe mutters, breaking out into a grin. He threads the tools into his belt and sets off from the crash site, his steps lighter, buoyed by his victory. He can’t help but think of how Hux might be pleased, at last—if he’s awake and cognizant when Poe finally returns with a bit of hope to keep them going.

Even the wind seems to approve of him. It abruptly tapers off into nothing more than a gentle breath at his back, then dies away completely. The silence is almost deafening.

He’s grateful for the looming shadow of the cliff in the distance, because without it he’d certainly be lost. Everything is a wash of grey—the sky overhead, the horizon in the distance, the ground beneath his feet. As he crests a small hill, breaking out of the tundra-like expanse where the shuttle had crashed and into the more varied terrain where twisted trees stand like muted sentinels of a forgotten era, he notices that even the dry brush of grass beneath his feet is grey.

Last night’s powder-dry snowfall still lingers here, and Poe’s feet brush up clouds of white that hang strange and fog-like in the heavy air, marking his passage through the wasteland.

Though it’s not a wasteland; not really. As he approaches the river he’d found the day before Poe hears the chittering of small creatures as they scatter to their hidden burrows, not wholly unlike the crystal critters that lived within the red salt mines of Crait.

Poe squats by the river, careful not to slip in the cold mud of the riverbank, and refills the canteens. He considers the effort it would take to fill the plastic bin with water and lug it back to the cave, then dismisses it for another day when he isn’t already exhausted from the long walk to the crash site.

As he washes his face in the brisk quick-flowing water, Poe also considers the fact that neither of them have showered or changed their clothes for what is quickly pushing three full days. And now Hux is sweating so much…

Poe caves, and does what he can for himself. He uses the blade of the axe to cut the canvas into rags and, stripping off his shirt, scrubs his torso down quickly while his skin peaks into goosebumps from the frigid air. Replacing his top, he does the same with his pants, grimacing at the feeling of putting old, dirty clothes back on over damp skin.

It’s better than nothing and, he thinks guiltily, better than he’ll be able to do for Hux once he returns.

With the damp rags in the bin and their canteens full, Poe leaves the riverbank behind. His stomach is pinched and angry, and as he sees a creature dart across his path he considers the blaster at his hip, his mouth watering for the taste of fire-cooked meat.

Maybe tomorrow.

When Poe finally makes it back to the cave, it’s clear that Hux is in no state to deal with the transmitter. He’s exactly where Poe left him, curled up and shivering, his splinted leg sticking out, one hand fisted beneath his cheek. Poe sets the device aside and builds up the fire in preparation for the encroaching night, distracted by Hux’s muttering.

“Cold. Why is the ship so cold? Get me Mitaka. Don’t tell—don’t tell him, please, I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it.”

“Yeah, I know you will,” Poe reassures him, because Hux is looking at him like he expects to have to defend himself on this point. “I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Sure I do! You can fix anything, right?”

“I—yes, I can.” Hux squints. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“I’m your friend.”

“I don’t have those.”

“You do now.” Poe is surprised at the conviction in his own voice. His jaw set in a grim determination, he harnesses his renewed energy to broach an idea that he knows Hux isn’t going to like.

He brushes his hands together and then kneels next to Hux, putting a hand on his shoulder so the other man will look at him.

“Hey, listen. I think we need to get you cleaned up a bit.”

Hux narrows his eyes, radiating suspicion, but he doesn’t protest when Poe drags him into a sitting position, propping his back against the wall of the cave.

“I’m just gonna do your chest and arms, okay? I won’t—” Poe falters. Takes a deep breath, soldiers on. “I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want me to, alright?”

“I don’t want you to touch me anywhere.”

Poe was expecting that. It’s an essential step in the process.

“I just want you to be comfortable. I scrubbed myself down in the river and I feel loads better so if you’ll let me I’ll just take off your shirt and—”

“No.” Stubborn. Poe grins.

“What if I said you stink?”

“I’m sure I do.” Hux shivers, makes a feeble attempt to wrap his arms around himself. “That, like perhaps everything that has _ever_ happened, is your fault.”

“I know. Let me make it better? Please?”

He can see Hux wavering. He knows he’s won even before Hux gives a terse nod. His face is _dirty_ , sticky with sweat, grimy from contact with the floor of the cave, and Poe knows Hux is at the height of discomfort—and besides, it has to hit the right buttons for Hux to see him _begging._

He’s grinning stupidly when he drags over the bin with the damp rags and then starts to quickly undo the buttons on Hux’s tunic, before Hux can change his mind.

Poe opens up the tunic and helps Hux shrug it off. He places it on the ground next to him, and when he turns back to help Hux out of his undershirt, his breath catches in a little hiccup of shock.

The firelight casts a red gleam on Hux’s pale skin, limning the brand on his upper arm in an angry light. At first he thinks it’s a tattoo, but…

Poe leans in and grabs Hux’s arm, angling it so he can see the mark better and then wincing. The First Order symbol looks like it was carved into his skin—it’s precise, the lines thin and straight, the skin raised. Scar tissue. It’s bigger than Poe’s palm.

Poe shakes himself a little and tears his gaze away from the ugly thing to find Hux looking at him.

“I, uh—” Poe swallows, works some saliva into his dry mouth. He shrugs. “It just—doesn’t seem like something I’d expect. From the Order.”

“It’s not typical.” Hux sounds tired.

Poe can’t help taking one last look at the ghastly thing on Hux’s arm. He notices that in the center of the First Order symbol are what look like two small ‘C’s. One is large and one small, the smaller nestled within the belly of the larger as if being swallowed up in some great maw.

“Dameron? It’s—cold—”

“Right, sorry.”

He wishes he could have heated the water somehow, to make it better for Hux. But even though it’s cold, with the first swipe of the rag along his arm Hux lets out an appreciative sigh, closing his eyes completely and letting his head fall back against the wall.

Poe goes as quickly as he can while making sure to wipe away all of the sweat and dirt. He rucks up Hux’s undershirt, moving the cloth over his ribs, his surprisingly soft stomach, the wings of his collarbones. Down along his arms and delicate wrists until Poe is working the cloth in between each of Hux’s fingers.

Maybe Poe is fooling himself in thinking that Hux looks relaxed. Maybe he’s projecting, because this is somehow intensely soothing for Poe. He feels like with every speck of dirt he scrubs away he’s somehow making small amends for getting them into this mess, for not being good enough to get them back out. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing when he sets the rag aside and simply holds Hux’s hands in his own for a few precious seconds, looking down at them. He lets his touch trail back up Hux’s arm, drawn inevitably to that awful mark marring the otherwise smooth expanse of milky skin.

Hux’s breath hitches.

“What?” He mumbles, shivering either from the cold, from the touch, or both.

Poe’s thumb brushes over the mark, the two little overlapping ‘C’s, eyebrows drawn together in a silent question.

“Ah.” Hux’s head rolls to the side, his chest rising and falling in a stilted rhythm. “My father’s personal brand. You don’t want to know what I had to do to get that.” He chuckles.

“No. I guess I don’t.” He does, though. Poe suddenly wants to know everything there is to know about Hux.

He helps Hux back into his tunic, buttoning it up and then laying his greatcoat over top of him when he shivers and complains of cold despite the heat pouring off of him. Poe gets a new rag and comes back to start cleaning Hux’s neck, working his way up to his face.

Hux’s eyes are drooping shut again. Their faces are very close.

“You were right,” Hux says suddenly. Poe frowns, cocking his head a bit. Hux isn’t looking at him so much as through him as he continues, voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted to leave. It doesn’t—none of this matters. He was going to kill me anyway. I couldn’t stay, couldn’t take orders from him, from Pryde.”

“Pryde?” Poe gently tilts Hux’s head to the side so he can wipe away more of the sweat and grime.

“Friend of my—father.” Hux laughs harshly, looking through Poe again. “And they always saw eye-to-eye, didn’t they? Weak little Armitage. Ha! Father wanted a vicious little—weapon for a son and he got one, didn’t he? Eventually.”

“Hux, you’re—you’re sayin’ a lot of things right now and I don’t know if—maybe you should just try to rest, okay?”

He wants to know more about Hux, but he doesn’t want to find out like this.

_What are you doing?_

Poe imagines it’s Finn’s voice that rises, shocked and irate, from his subconscious to grab him by the shoulders with ghostly hands and shake him from his madness.

Because he should be encouraging Hux to talk. To spill every detail about the command structure of the First Order and his twisted past so the Resistance can build a case against him, so Poe can shore up the walls the galaxy has built between them. But all Poe wants now is to tear them down and he finds, as his fingers brush Hux’s newly washed cheek, that maybe they’re already gone.

If he can stop Hux from saying anything he’ll regret in the grip of his illness, while he’s this confused and weak, then he will. Whether Hux feels the same way or not doesn’t matter. Poe’s resolve is set—they’re in this together. Whatever ‘this’ is, and whatever it may become.

“I’m loyal to the Order.” Hux brings Poe out of his thoughts with a grip on his arm, fingers like durasteel, eyes like burning brands, breath coming harsh and quick. “I _am._ It’s them, it’s—Ren, never believed in any of it, only cares about his—m-mystical fucking, super powers and his fucking _uncle_ and that _girl.”_

_“_ Shhh. Okay, it’s okay.” Poe folds the rag and then lays it across Hux’s forehead, holding it in place with his hand, hoping that it might help absorb some of the heat still burning him up inside.

“And he was always in my head.” Hux abruptly looks to be on the verge of exhausted tears. “Until I didn’t even know if my thoughts were truly mine. He can see them so plainly, maybe he can plant them, too. It isn’t _fair_. He’s a _child_ , why does he get the power of a god? Everything just _handed_ to him when I had to fight for everything, for the right to exist?”

“I don’t—I don’t know, Hux. I’m sorry he was in your head. I know what that’s like.”

“Oh yes, you do, don’t you?” Hux squeezes his eyes shut and then gasps through a full-body shudder. “Enough of this,” he mutters, tilting his head to the side, and somehow Poe understands he means both the conversation and the damp rag on his forehead. “Remove it, please. I’m cold. It’s unbearable.”

“Sorry.”

Poe starts to return the rag to the bin but has to drop it when Hux suddenly jerks to the side, sliding off of the wall.

“Hux? Hux!”

He grabs Hux by the shoulders and feels him convulse in his grip.

“No no no. _Kriff.”_ Poe’s stomach twists and tries to climb up into his chest as he realizes that Hux is having some kind of seizure. His arms are trembling and his head jolts forward, then back, and Poe catches him before he can hit his head on the ground.

“Okay, you’re okay.” Poe shoves everything aside so he can lay down next to Hux. He doesn’t know what to do; he pulls Hux against his chest until the tremors stop, his own heart beating wildly in his chest, his eyes wide and frightened.

The cave is too quiet. All Poe can hear is Hux’s heavy breathing, the crackle of the fire, and the pounding of blood in his ears. He doesn’t want to move, he realizes, not for the rest of the night. He’s fucking exhausted and his head is spinning.

_My father’s brand._

_Don’t leave me._

_He was always in my head._

_Don’t go._

“Please don’t die.” Poe clutches Hux to him, wrapping his arms around that lean frame as tight as he can. He should probably make some effort to mask how scared he is but he can’t. He’s tired, he’s hungry, he’s so fucking _sick_ of this awful world taking from him. It took his mother, it’s taken his pilots, his friends, his chance at redemption, and he can’t bear the thought of it taking Hux, too.

_This is mine._

He squeezes his eyes shut, sniffing. A pained little sound is trying to escape from the back of his throat and he has to press his lips together to keep it inside, but it builds up in his chest until finally a single hot tear rolls down his cheek.

“Listen to me.” He sniffs again, swiping angrily at his cheek, then gently nudging Hux’s head until the other man is looking at him. He thinks he sees a spark of understanding in eyes that he suddenly realizes are the most delicate, unique shade of pale grey-green.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Poe lets out a shaky, skittering breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I yelled at you yesterday and I’m sorry that we’re even here. You’re right, this is—all my fault. I shouldn’t have been on that ship, they didn’t want me to go but I—I did it anyway and I’m just so, so kriffing _stupid_ sometimes but I—” his voice breaks, notches up. “I didn’t mean for it to end up like this. And you—I’m sorry Hux, I’m so sorry. You gotta get better cuz I really can’t do this alone, I’m no good on my own, don’t you see that?”

_If I admit it, will you stay?_

Poe can’t look at Hux anymore. He buries his face in his arm, curling around Hux, feeling the uselessness of the gesture. It won’t do anything against the fever ravaging Hux’s body. But it’s all that Poe has and he feels crazy with the desire to make it count. He wants to crack open his own ribcage and pull Hux inside.

He doesn’t expect a response. The night is heavy around them and talking to Hux like this is hard. Poe is certain Hux doesn’t hear half of what he says anymore, and the other half might as well be coming from the mouth of someone from his past. But just as Poe takes a deep breath, trying to calm down enough to maybe catch an hour or two of sleep, he hears it. A thin voice, as fragile as the frost glazing the grey grass of the riverbank, pushed out on a faint puff of warm breath against his chest.

“I’ll fix it.”

Poe’s eyes fly open. His hand spasms on Hux’s shoulder, gripping hard. He’s out of his mind with relief and terror and he waits for more, straining to hear Hux’s breathy whisper over the wind that whistles past the entrance to the cave like the voice of an angry god.

Hux lifts one hand, weakly patting Poe’s elbow before it falls limp at Poe’s side.

“I can fix anything. I’ll fix this.”

Hux is already asleep or merely unresponsive by the time Poe unfreezes himself enough to murmur fevered thanks to Hux’s hairline, where his lips brush against sweat-slick hair.

And Poe can hear it now, the words in the wind. It hadn’t made any sense outside of the cave; he knows now that nothing will, that understanding only comes here, where he can hold Hux in his arms.

The wind howls, sings the vital message in Poe’s ears. A single thrumming note:

_Mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, if you ever want to reach out to me I'm @RabidSola on Twitter and @partialresonance on Tumblr. Sometimes I post about things I'm working on, mostly I scream about Hux.
> 
> Edit 8/14/20: I did decide to change the design of the brand on Hux's arm just slightly.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments, I promise I’ll get around to responding to each one! <3

Hux realizes he has been staring at the crackling fire for a very long time.

There is now a dark circle of soot where the fire stands, marking the floor of the cave in a way that seems permanent. Lived-in, even, as if the fire has always been there.

Hux has a thought. He turns his head—in what feels like a laborious gesture, too much work to be worth indulging a passing curiosity—but is satisfied when he rolls onto his back and sees that there is a matching mark on the ceiling overhead, the rock stained by smoke.

A brief vertigo grips him. It suddenly feels as if they’ve been here for years. He struggles to calculate the actual length of time that has passed since their crash. He thinks he’s spent no more than a day or two in this washed-out limbo of consciousness, where time is a slippery thing that he can only mark by the changes in light, in whether Dameron is by his side or not. But what if it was longer? What if he has been ill for weeks? What if they’ve been here all along and all the rest of it was a dream?

“Hugs?”

Ah. Dameron.

Hux closes his eyes. Turning on his side again seems like an obscene waste of energy when he knows that Dameron will come to him.

A hand in his hair. Hux furrows his eyebrows, and the hand retreats.

“Can I get you to drink something?”

Dameron’s voice is unique. Hux knows he would recognize it among thousands—its particular deep, rasping quality, the slight slur at times as if he is speaking through his teeth. He can admit to himself that it is comforting. No one has ever spent this much time with him. Perhaps his father had, cumulatively, throughout the years—though even Brendol had only ever wanted Hux out of his sight once he was there. Oddly, he gets the feeling that Dameron actually likes being at his side.

Of course, Dameron doesn’t exactly have a choice.

“I’m tired.” He hates how small his voice sounds, how small he feels.

“I know.” Dameron threads his arm under Hux’s back and levers him up into a sitting position. Hux wonders where the man gets his energy. He leans heavily against Dameron’s side, lucid enough to be mortified at the proximity. Dameron takes it all in stride. He even seems to be in a good mood.

“What are you so happy about?” Hux mumbles between sips of water, shivering slightly in the chill air. He thinks he’s sweating less than he has been, though there is still an annoying dampness clinging to his forehead that invites a chill into his bones.

“It’s a surprise.”

Hux snorts.

He finishes the water and Dameron sets the canteen aside and then simply squeezes the arm he has slung around Hux’s shoulders. They sit in a comfortable silence for a moment. Hux lets his eyes slip shut, his head tilting until it comes to rest on Dameron’s shoulder.

It isn’t until he feels the sharp press of Dameron’s jaw against the top of his head that he realizes what they’re doing. Hux feels a sudden heat rising to his face in tandem with an uncomfortable fluttering of nerves in his stomach—though it isn’t entirely unpleasant, and that’s the part that worries him enough to push away.

Dameron says nothing. He moves so that Hux can curl up on the floor, staring into the fire again. He must be a touch too close to the flames, because a strange heat pricks at his eyes, making them water. He blinks. After a moment the sensation leaves but he’s still tight-throated and flushed, and he doesn’t know if it’s from fever or shame or something else.

Hux slips into an uneasy sleep.

He’s not sure how much time passes before he is awake again, watching Dameron preparing to leave the cave.

Another stab of embarrassment—he remembers begging the man not to go, overcome by fear of being left alone, certain that he was going to die. Hux averts his eyes, hoping Dameron won’t notice that he’s awake—but of course, he does.

“I’ll be back soon, Hugs.” Dameron reaches over to pat his shoulder and Hux gives a tight nod, cheek scraping against the ground. Is it his imagination, or is Dameron calling him ‘Hugs’ more often as the days pass? Hux wonders when he stopped hating it. If he ever hated it.

“I wanted to kill you, you know.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. His vision is stuttering; Dameron seems to move in fits and jerks as he turns more fully to face Hux, crouching by his side.

“Oh, I know.” Dameron chuckles and shakes his head. Hux smiles too.

“No, truly, I wanted to kill you for what you said.”

“And what was that? I say a lot of things.”

“About her. My mother.”

Dameron stills. He looks suddenly stricken by guilt, and for some reason it’s _very_ funny. Hux starts to laugh.

He’s hot all over and his very bones ache. He’s shaking. His head is full of static. He briefly forgets what he was laughing about and that, in itself, is funny.

Dameron’s fingers are on his cheek.

“Are you with me, Hugs?”

Hux remembers.

“You knew,” he laughs. Looking up at Dameron is too difficult in his current position; his gaze falls to the floor. “You knew about her.”

“No. I mean, I knew that you were—”

“A bastard.”

After a moment, “Yeah.” Then: “I’m so sorry, Hugs.”

“I don’t care.” And Hux realizes why he brought this up in the first place—because he _had_ wanted to kill Dameron, but for some reason that is no longer the case. And for some further, even more unfathomable reason, he wants Dameron to know that.

Mere moments after Dameron has left the cave, Hux feels a sort of itching restlessness settle into his chest. He’s exhausted, but the discomfort from his broken leg and the shaking, sweating, aching fever is too much for him to sleep. He thinks he might work on the transmitter—but trying to push himself up proves too much for him as well.

All he can do is think.

Annoyingly, his thoughts go immediately to Dameron, and stay there. He rationalizes it as best he can—Dameron is the only other person on the planet and the human mind is built to obsess over other humans, damnably social creatures that they all are. Even he can’t be immune to the call of evolutionary pressures.

And that’s all this is, on both ends. Hux is aware of how much Dameron has been touching him: holding him through the night; touching his hair, his face, his hands. It’s simply biological, just two creatures driven by their genetic coding to seek physical contact and social bonding in times of distress and isolation.

He won’t let it weaken him.

Some time later (everything is always _some time later_ , nothing more specific than that—Hux has long given up expecting his fuzzy mind to operate in the manner it used to) he awakens to the smell of burning hair.

He struggles to push himself up, alarmed, thinking he may have rolled into the fire, or perhaps a stray ember ignited in his hair. Then Dameron’s hands are on him, pushing him gently back down, and the man is making those infuriating little shushing noises, like he’s coddling some frightened little voorpak. Although perhaps the most infuriating thing about it all is that Hux doesn’t really mind.

Obediently, he lies back down, and swipes a hand down his face to draw away some of the sweat.

“What have you done now, Dameron? I smell something burning.” He supposes he could just be losing his mind and imagining things.

“Ah, well, I—uh.” Dameron gives him a sheepish smile, tugging at his curls.

“Spit it out, then.” Hux has been a commanding officer long enough to know when someone is hiding a failure.

“Well, I think you’ll be a little proud of me here, Hugs. I caught some food.”

“Caught. Food.” The words don’t make sense together; their food comes from the survival pack and it hardly needs catching—though the thought leads Hux to the horrifying mental image of the rations bars sprouting legs and darting about the cave.

“Well—blasted it, really.”

When Hux makes another attempt at sitting up, Dameron helps him, and as Hux leans against the cave wall and lifts a shaking hand to weakly push back his sweat-damp hair he glances at the fire and barks a single harsh laugh.

“Is this your ‘surprise’? You have to skin it first, you hopeless buffoon.”

There’s—well, _some_ sort of creature hanging limply from a spindly little spit perched precariously atop two upside-down V supports, suspended over their fire. Currently _catching_ fire, because apparently Dameron is smart enough to blast a hole in the creature’s skull but not smart enough to remove the fur before applying flame.

“Take it off!” Hux shouts, as a particularly large swath of fur is engulfed. “Take it off, Dameron! Quick!” He shakes a hand helplessly at the scene, too weak to move away from the wall. Instead he gets to enjoy the sight of Dameron scrambling to remove the carcass from the fire and beat it against the ground until the flames go out.

It’s all so surreal that it’s somehow funny. Hux almost feels drunk. Normally he would suppress the urge to laugh unless it was derisive, meant to bite, to tear down the other and this is decidedly not that—but for some reason, right now, he couldn’t care less about the optics. He starts to chuckle.

“Idiot.” He shakes his head. “I hope you have more of those.” The carcass is a charred ruin. If Hux had any sort of appetite left, he would be disappointed. As it is he wrinkles his nose and turns his head away as if he can escape the smell.

“A couple. Guess I’m a better hunter than a cook.” Dameron winks.

Something in Hux’s stomach twists, and it has nothing to do with his nausea.

_You should be good at this, Armitage, given that your mother was a lowly kitchen wench._

He looks down, eyes flicking back and forth as he comes to a decision. Then he braces himself—shoulders back, chin up.

“Bring it here. And my knife.”

Dameron raises an eyebrow at him, but does as asked. The carcass is placed in Hux’s hands, the knife on the ground beside his thigh.

Hux turns the small animal over, comparing its structure to that of the game animals he is familiar with. It’s something like a rodent, or a small feline—a quadruped with a slender torso and fluffy tail, a neat hole burned in its skull from Dameron’s blaster.

Hux lets his muscle memory take over. He picks up the knife and makes a neat slit in the hide at the base of the skull. Gripping the head in one palm, he gives it a quick and vicious twist-and-pull that separates it from the spine. He tosses it aside, and proceeds to strip the carcass of its hide in two neat pulls. It separates from the meat with an odd sound, something like a wet crunch as the tendons snap.

The hide he tosses carelessly to the floor, where it flops in a darkly-slick heap. He offers the skinned carcass to Dameron.

“Put that on the spit,” he says tiredly. He places the knife as surreptitiously as he can on the floor beside his leg farthest from Dameron, scooting it under his thigh.

Dameron isn’t paying the slightest attention to the knife; he’s looking between Hux and the carcass, mouth hanging open.

“What?” Hux gestures impatiently; he feels flushed and his arm is starting to shake from holding even the little beast’s inconsequential weight for this long. “I skinned it perfectly!”

“No, yeah,” Dameron blinks and seems to shake himself from a stupor. “Yeah, you did. Good job, Hugs.” He takes the carcass from Hux slowly, warily, as if Hux has the energy to do anything other than collapse back against the wall and close his eyes, which he does as soon as his hands are empty. He knows his hands are bloody, and the contamination does bother him, but he’s so filthy already that it hardly seems worth fussing over.

Dameron puts the carcass on the spit and balances it over the fire, then comes back to Hux with a rag.

“Here.”

Hux just shrugs, not looking at him, so Dameron wipes his hands for him—again slowly, like he’s dealing with a creature of unknown quality and temperament.

“So, where’d you learn to do that?” Dameron tosses the cloth aside and sits next to Hux to watch the meat slowly start to brown on one side. “I gotta admit, it’s not exactly what I would expect from an uptight officer like you.” He nudges Hux’s arm in what Hux recognizes as a gesture of goodwill. He knows teasing when he sees it, most of the time.

He looks into the fire and considers his options. He could simply ignore the question, which is tempting. What does he have to gain from being honest with this rebel scum?

“You know very little about me,” he says, hedging.

“That’s true.” Dameron pauses for a moment. “Well, here’s a little about me: I grew up on a farm. It was mostly koyo trees, but we had some hens. We kept them for their eggs, though we ate a bird once in a while. Dad always slaughtered and prepped ‘em for us. I’m sure he would’ve shown me if I’d asked, but—”

“Don’t tell me you hated killing.” Hux laughs. “You must have gotten over that childish indisposition at some point.” Considering the number of TIE pilots that had met their end in Dameron’s crosshairs—not to mention the dreadnought, the _Supremacy_ , and everyone who had died on Starkiller Base.

He sees Dameron wince out of the corner of his eye, then nod.

“Guess I did. So did your dad teach you to skin game?”

Hux falls silent.

Thinking of that time in his life—everything gets muddled. The first image he can really grasp is that of the grey interiors of an Imperial ship. It had been smaller than those he has since served on in the First Order fleet but at the time it had seemed like an entire world. It was always cold, he remembers. And, wandering down the corridors of his mind that lead him to those memories, there is always the vague sense that he’s being pursued.

When he tries to think of what came before the ship he gets flashes of forest and desert. Rain and sand. He knows his own history; intellectually he could call up the facts but something about verbalizing it is—well, impossible. Somehow he doesn’t have the words for it. And in any case, he thinks, that’s not when he went through his father’s survival course, that came after Sloane, after—

He hears Dameron sigh. Apparently he’s taken too long to answer, again. It’s almost comical how short of an attention span the pilot has.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” Dameron sounds disappointed, maybe even sad. “I just thought, yaknow, after everything…”

_Everything you’ve done for me?_

Of course, no one has ever helped Hux without expecting compensation. Abruptly, he wonders if Dameron is using his illness to weasel information out of him. Is there something in his past that the Resistance needs?

But, no, wasn’t there a time just this morning, or perhaps yesterday, when Dameron told him to stop talking? Hux can’t remember if that was real.

Even now Dameron is touching him, their shoulders pressed together. If Hux doesn’t talk will Dameron withdraw? Cease the soothing touches to his cheek and brow? The times he pushes back Hux’s hair from his face, thinking Hux to be asleep? The thought of losing it—whatever this awful, too-good thing is between him and Dameron—fills him with dread.

His brain is addled. That has to be it. This illness has made him weak and dependent. Some sort of _infection_ has carved out a space in his psyche and even if he recovers from his fever and broken bones he’ll have to excise that at some point before he’s whole again.

But between those broken bones and the cold and hunger, the sickness that makes him shiver even while overly-hot, the failures stacked upon failures and barely a whisper of hope for something good to come, there is so little comfort to be found. Is he really so weak for wanting to hold on to Dameron—his regard for Hux, what small amount of it there might be?

Wouldn’t it rather be _strength_ to reach out and grasp it—to _take_ it, like he’s had to take everything else good in his life?

If talking is the only price he must pay, he tells himself that that is luck.

“What do you know of Brendol Hux?”

Of course, Hux won’t give away anything significant that the rebel doesn’t already know. And he’s curious as to exactly how comprehensive Resistance intelligence is when it comes to details like this. Surely, Dameron had seen something of General Armitage Hux’s profile before that idiotic (and infuriatingly effective) prank call.

“Not much.” Dameron shrugs, though it seems affected rather than natural. “He was an Imperial who ran some sort of Academy. He was your dad.”

_Dad._ What a strange term. It certainly doesn’t feel like it should apply to Brendol.

“I suppose those were his defining qualities.” Hux catches himself fidgeting and stills his hands by folding them in his lap. Abruptly he is furious with himself—all of this hedging and dithering, it’s unlike him. He has always been decisive, but now he’s afraid that his hesitation is granting some sort of obscene power to his father’s ghost. The man is long gone and Hux can speak of him if he wishes to do so.

Though he is instantly proven wrong when he opens his mouth twice, and nothing comes out. He frowns and makes a low sound of frustration in his throat.

“Speaking of him is—difficult,” he says, haltingly, feeling Dameron tense up beside him. The pilot’s attention is a sharp thing, like the beam of a powerful spotlight slicing through the dark—Hux briefly wonders if he, Hux, has something of the Force after all, because it is so easy to read Dameron now.

The man just has a _presence_. It’s sort of like how Hux always felt around Ren, but where Ren was all swirling darkness, enveloping, suffocating—Dameron is a bright shard. Cutting, but in a way that almost makes Hux want for it, want to bleed.

“Bad memories?” Dameron asks softly, and Hux knows the man is already jumping to conclusions, some of them likely accurate, though he can’t know everything. No one does. Hux shrugs, opens his mouth to speak, but his usual eloquence has failed him.

“It’s—” He presses his lips together and lifts a hand in a vague gesture, eyebrows knitting together. “I can’t—”

_There was a ship, and there were children, and I was a child and my arm bled for days and—_

He shakes his head. He can’t even remember Dameron’s original question, much less find the relevant information to start to piece together an answer. An old anxiety stirs in his chest—not knowing the answer, the pain that would come after, the harsh words that were worse because they would rattle around in his head for decades, long after injuries had healed—

“It’s okay, Hugs.” Dameron pats his hand, flashing him a bright smile. “Thanks for trying.” He gets up to turn the carcass on the spit. Hux is stunned.

_Failure._ He’d failed and Dameron is—praising him?

It’s absurd. It’s unthinkable.

It makes him want to try again.

The spit—they’d been talking about skinning game.

“Yes,” he grinds out. He stares determinedly at the ground, piecing it together word by word, dragging it out of himself with a mental effort equivalent to fighting off Ren. “It was my—father. He—his. One of his training modules.” He exhales, relieved as he finds a thread he can latch onto.

“A survival course. He believed his officers should be equipped to survive any number of situations, including a stranding like this. Simulations were our primary method of education, but for this he demanded a practical element that was difficult to administer after—”

After.

He trips up, casts about, and picks up another thread. “We lived ship-side by then, but he retained as much of the training from the Academy as he could. When we approached a suitable planet we went down and—”

And.

His thoughts grind to a halt again.

“I learned.” He tightens his jaw. “That is all.”

“Okay.” Dameron, for some reason, smiles as he grips Hux’s shoulder. “Thanks for telling me. That’s cool that you know how to do this. Very useful for us. I think the meat’s almost cooked, if you’re hungry.”

Hux is not hungry, but he accepts the strip of meat Dameron hands him and eats it all with a sort of angry determination. It settles uneasily in his stomach. He waits, queasy and unhappy with himself, wondering what to do next. He’s certain there was something he was supposed to be doing before this blasted sickness took hold of him.

_The transmitter._ Of course. He’s supposed to be repairing it so they can get off this rock. Hux curses himself for wasting even a moment of his lucidity on talking about his past.

“Hand me one of the painkillers, will you?” He straightens himself up, running a hand through his hair, trying to get the strands to stay back the way he’s used to. To his disappointment they fall unruly around his face.

“There’s none left, Hugs. Sorry.”

Hux looks up sharply.

“I thought there were two?”

“I used ‘em.”

“ _When?_ ”

“Um, one the other day and one last night. You woke up screaming about your leg, I didn’t know what else to do.”

Hux feels the blood rush to his face. Not only does he not remember any of this, but the idea of crying out in pain is so deeply shameful that for a moment he’s tongue-tied. As if summoned by his thoughts, a bright lance of pain darts through his leg and he draws in a sharp breath. Then, he presses his lips together and narrows his eyes at Dameron. It’s easy to be angry at him when he’s the only one around.

“Well what am I going to do now?” Hux snaps.

He instantly regrets it when Dameron’s eyes go wide, his brows drawn together above his nose and lifting in the middle. He has big eyes, dark eyes that shimmer with emotion. He looks hurt, forlorn, maybe even on the verge of tears. It’s annoying. Hux doesn’t want to see that look on his face ever again, if he can help it. Irritating Republic-bred sentimentality.

Hux sighs, and rolls his eyes. The words slip out of him automatically.

“It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said _it’s fine._ The pain is manageable.” That’s a lie, but Hux has little choice other than to grit his teeth and bare the discomfort. It’s distracting, though. “Will you hand me the transmitter? And—are there any tools?” The survival kit _should_ come with a set of small hand tools, although Hux supposes that with his luck they’ll have been magically replaced with nuna feathers. His life is one big cosmic joke, after all.

“I found a shovel in the shuttle,” Dameron says, unhelpfully. “And an axe.”

“Dameron. How is an _axe_ going to help me with this?”

“I guess it’s not.”

Dameron is grinning as he sets the transmitter beside Hux and then rifles through the survival kit until he comes up with a slim black case about the span of his hand from fingertip to wrist.

“This what you’re lookin’ for?”

“Yes, yes, give it here.” The longer Hux has to sit there in pain the grouchier he becomes. He rushes to strip the back panel from the transmitter, his hand shaking so badly that his fingers simply scrabble at the material for a few frustrating seconds.

It’s unlikely that the _Steadfast_ is still in the Chulza system. The plan was for the Order’s flagship to make a brief appearance: a show of force to solidify their rule in this sector. Then they would leave on grander missions. Supposedly. (In reality, it would simply be for whatever whims befell Ren at a given time.) They would leave behind a small contingent of the fleet, likely a star destroyer or two and a smattering of support ships.

Hux has no idea how Ren has spun his disappearance—perhaps it’s not well known outside of the _Steadfast_ that Hux is even gone. Still, it won’t do for just anyone to pick up this signal. Hux knows that the _Finalizer_ is likely still in orbit. He modifies the transmitter’s signal to ping one very specific receiver with a coded message.

If Mitaka is anywhere in receiving distance of the moon, he’ll find a way to get to Hux.

Mitaka is cleverer than anyone but Hux is willing to give him credit for. It’s made the young man fiercely loyal to him. More than anyone else in the galaxy, Hux actually feels that he can trust Mitaka.

He doesn’t tell Dameron what he’s doing, and Dameron doesn’t ask.

“Put this outside the cave, where it will be safe.”

He watches Dameron scramble to comply, the pilot’s attitude that of an eager assistant. Hux allows himself a brief, wan smile. If what he has done has worked, their partnership will soon be at an end.

When Dameron comes back into the cave, the light behind him is a silver halo that casts into high relief the whorl of each dark curl. Hux is struck dumb by the sight of his wide smile. It’s a brilliant thing that lives in his eyes as much as in the pull of his lips and it seems to demand an answer. And quite before he can stop himself, Hux’s mouth ticks up into a small grin. A weak facsimile of the shining thing that lives in Poe.

The wind at his back swirls around him, carrying motes of cold-flash snow that drift about his arms and scurry at his feet like messenger spirits, and Hux, too, feels like some tiny thing that only does this man’s bidding. He knows he’s lost his mind completely when he realizes that it’s not a bad feeling. Not at all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Towards the end there is some very brief and very mild suicidal ideation, maybe not even really qualifying as that but I thought I'd warn you all, just to be safe.

Hux is twitchy after setting up the transmitter. It’s subtle, but Poe has spent days doing little other than watching Hux, and he can see it in the faint, fluttery motions of his hands, in the restless wandering of his eyes. His uncertainty creeps throughout the cave until Poe feels it, too, and dares to ask what to expect.

Hux tells him in dry, ordered language that he is attempting to contact some officer of his. A man he trusts to retrieve Hux discretely, keep his existence secret from Kylo Ren. This is nothing more than Poe had expected. The First Order has an uncontested presence in this sector and as much as Poe hates to admit it, it’s a better shot than trying to contact the Resistance, who won’t be looking for signals in this sector, who don’t know that he is here. By his own design.

He’d set himself up for this, and would take the consequences on the chin. Being back in the First Order’s interrogation room is, after all, slightly preferable to dying on a deserted planetoid. At least he’d have a chance of escaping again, like he had with Finn, and with Hux.

Though he has to admit to himself that his escape plans usually end with him in only a marginally better position than that which he had escaped. Poe sometimes feels like he’s on a treadmill, running as fast as he can just to stay in place.

There’s something Hux isn’t telling him, though. Some underlying reason for this odd, antsy behavior, as if an irritant has crawled under his skin. Poe thinks, with some measure of confidence he can’t explain, that Hux doesn’t believe his own words.

“If Mitaka is still here,” Hux whispers in the dark, later, when the wind has picked up and the snow drifts in through the opening to the cave and he and Poe have crept close again, not touching yet though they eventually will and they both know it, “he’ll surely send for us soon. Maybe in as little as a few hours.”

So there it is. _If_ he’s here. Poe finds himself a little bit relieved, though he doesn’t know if he should be. He’s not sure what response Hux is looking for here, so he goes with his gut. When in doubt, make a joke.

“Hmm. And then you’ll have me in your clutches again?” Poe grins. “You gonna strap me down for another interrogation?”

Hux snorts. He’s looking better now than he did that morning, maybe better than he has at any point since they crashed here. His eyes are clear, his gaze steady and lucid. He’d eaten everything Poe had given him earlier—and Poe had given him far more than a fair share of the meat they’d killed and cooked together. He’d kept giving and giving until Hux hadn’t been able to eat another bite, until Poe had been left with just enough to stave off the worst of his hunger. He doesn’t think Hux noticed, and for some reason the thought of that—of Hux’s easy, harmless selfishness—makes him want to smile.

“I’ll have them confiscate your little toy, at the very least,” Hux is saying, talking about the data stick. He lifts his gaze from the fire to Poe and his green eyes are serious, even pitying. “There’s nowhere you can hide it, Dameron. You can only make the retrieval an inconvenience for my officers and uncomfortable for yourself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. And what’re you gonna do? Doesn’t the Order want you dead?”

“ _Ren_ wants me dead, and he is hardly the Order.”

“What about that Pryde guy?”

Hux’s eyes flash.

“Not that you have any business knowing my plans—but seeing as you’ll spend the time safely stored in the brig, I don’t see the harm in putting your mind at ease. You can rest assured that they involve my covert recovery aboard the _Finalizer_ before I ultimately wrest control of my fleet from the hands of that wrinkled old Imperial Hutt-spawn.”

“You’re literally _spitting_ mad right now.” Poe tilts his chin down so he can look up at Hux through his eyelashes. “You’re really gonna put me in the brig?”

“I don’t see what alternative I have.”

“Let me…go…?”

Hux pauses, as if he hadn’t even considered that, and Poe supposes that he probably hadn’t. He waits for Hux to come to some sort of conclusion on it, imagining the idea tumbling around in Hux’s mind, worked over by the gears until it’s worn smooth, palatable.

“Perhaps.” Hux looks thoughtfully into the flames. “Something could be arranged. In exchange for information. You could tell me where the Resistance is hiding.”

“Like hell.”

“I’ll get it from you anyway, if I do decide to interrogate you!”

Again, that _if._

“Only Kylo Ren could get that information out of me, and I think you know it. And you’re not gonna give me over to him because you’re going to try to get rid of him, aren’t you?” Poe shakes his head. “He’ll kill you, Hux. You don’t stand a chance against him.”

“I’m more dangerous than you seem to think!” Hux snarls at him, nose scrunched and lips pulling back from his teeth. His hand twitches and Poe thinks about the knife he’d given Hux to skin the carcass with and had never gotten back. He’d trusted Hux with it, thinking it was something Hux needed to feel safe, banking on the assumption that the other man was no longer confused enough to try to kill the only person keeping him alive.

“I think you’re plenty dangerous.” That much is true. Aboard the Star Destroyer Hux had seemed like little more than another pompous, pampered officer—but since crashing here he’s surprised Poe more than once. And now Poe thinks that that feral glint in his eyes could be backed by more than the ability to order the deaths of distant star systems. He has no trouble imagining that Hux—vicious, competent, and with that sudden spring-release energy—is capable of a more personal brand of violence. Nonetheless. “I’ve seen Ren stop a blaster bolt in mid air. What are you going to do against a man who can throw you across the room with his _mind?_ ”

He’d meant it in a general sense, an offhand example of something the dark sider could do with the Force, but something about the way Hux’s expression goes briefly blank and stiff makes him think that Ren has done _exactly_ that to him at some point. Which only furthers Poe’s frustration. He’d never thought Hux to be someone willing to die for anything—much less a stupid, pointless vendetta doomed to failure. He is almost disappointed.

“That’s none of your concern.” Only dregs of the night wind make it this far into the cave but it curls cold fingers around the two of them, and Hux flips up the collar of his coat in a futile attempt to stay warm. Poe thinks that he could block the entrance with a panel from the wrecked shuttle, if he had to. If Mitaka doesn’t come through.

Rather than try to convince Hux that Poe does care whether he lives or dies and that that isn’t as strange as he might think—or is it? Poe hadn’t cared at Crait or D’qar or Starkiller Base so what has changed?—Poe gets up and feeds another few branches to the fire. Night is closing in on them, with all of its typical demands. Cold. Darkness. Unspoken things that must now be aired, or buried until morning.

“Listen, you trust this Mitaka guy, don’t you?”

“As far as anyone is worthy of trust—” Hux’s tone makes it clear that this is not very far— “He is, yes.”

“Have him help us escape.”

“Really, Dameron? I’ve seen how well your escape plans go.”

“No, just— _c’mon,_ Hux. I’m serious. You shouldn’t go back to the Order. You said they’d kill you.”

“I was in a weak state of mind. There’s nothing for me but the Order. You know that.” Hux looks away from Poe and raises a hand to briefly touch his upper arm, where the Order’s insignia is sewn into his coat—and beneath, the same insignia is carved into his skin. Poe is abruptly aware of the fact that, just like he had been born into the New Republic, had been raised in its culture, steeped in its virtues and ideals—Hux had been born into the Order.

Maybe it hadn’t been called the Order when he was a child. It had been the Empire, then a scattering of Imperials scrambling to hold on to their power, their way of life. Coalescing in the Unknown Regions into something sinister, something even leaner and more cruel and powerful than the Empire had ever been. The man across from him is a product of that—he’d never known anything else, and the thought of defecting to the Resistance must feel as insane and impossible and repugnant as the thought of Poe defecting to the Order.

But there is one difference, Poe thinks. His side is _right_ and Hux’s is _wrong._ No need to look any further than the brand on his arm to see that. Something angry and protective sparks and flares to life in his chest. Hux thinks there’s nothing for him but the Order? Poe will show him that he’s wrong.

“There _can_ be,” Poe insists, resisting the urge to reach out and take Hux’s hand. “Come with me to the Resistance.”

“Absolutely not!”

“I know it sounds crazy, but—”

“ _No!_ It’s unthinkable. I will not go willingly to the gallows.”

“That’s _exactly_ what you’re doing by going back to the Order.”

“What you’re saying is there’s nothing for me at all, then!” When Poe opens his mouth to disagree Hux silences him with a cutting glare and a frustrated shout: “You’re an infuriating man!”

Hux crosses his arms. He seems surprised at his own declaration but no less certain of it once it’s out. Poe’s anger evaporates and he sits back, looking Hux over. He can sense that Hux is angry, at Poe and at himself, that if Hux were capable of it he would stand and storm outside to sit at the mouth of the cave with his back to Poe. It suddenly strikes Poe that Hux is used to pacing when he’s anxious, that the inability to indulge in that old harmless habit wounds him.

“Stop it,” Hux snaps, and Poe blinks, shaking himself from his thoughts.

“Stop what?”

“Stop thinking about me. I can see it on your face. I won’t be the subject of whatever fantasies you’ve created to entertain yourself.” Hux has grabbed a twig and is twisting it in his hands, sawing it back and forth across his palms. “Our temporary truce is nearly over. You could kill me now if you wish. Try to overpower Mitaka when he comes down here in the shuttle. He’ll likely come alone, you could do it easily.”

“You’re lying.” Poe shakes his head. “Why are you trying to convince me to kill you?”

But that’s not really what Hux is doing, and Poe knows it. Hux is scared. He thinks Poe will hurt him, somehow, and he wants to draw it out of him prematurely so he can grasp it on his own terms. As if Poe were some threat lurking in the dark and instead of staying quiet and hidden Hux has decided to kick over a rock and shout _here I am, take me if you can. If you dare._

Poe has to wonder exactly what Hux is afraid of, if he’s so convinced he has the upper hand, will have Poe in the _Finalizer’s_ brig within a few hours.

_“_ Maybe I’m just trying to trick you into coming over here so I can kill you first.”

“What, with the twig?” Poe scoots closer until his shoulder brushes against Hux’s. Hux snorts, seeming to deflate a bit, and Poe wonders if he’ll ever be treated to another smile. “You know, you don’t have to lie to get me to come over. I like being close to you.”

“That’s enough, Dameron.” Hux looks away from him, eyes going wide with something close to terror. He twists his hands and the twig snaps. His palms are red, lined with shallow scrapes.

“I didn’t mean to say that there’s no hope for you.” Poe casts his eyes to the ground, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. Hux wouldn’t use those words, would only say _hope_ as if it were a curse. But Poe regrets everything about their conversation that led Hux to think that there were only two options for him and that they looked so much alike as to be no choice at all. He never wants Hux to feel hopeless.

“I don’t need _hope_. I have strategy. I wouldn’t have survived this long without cultivating certain resources for myself.” Hux rubs tiredly at his eyes. “I don’t need to convince you of anything. Mitaka is on his way. We’ll be on the _Finalizer_ soon. I’ll see what I can do for you once we’re there. I’m tired, please, I need to rest.”

“Okay. Me too.”

Poe goes cautiously, letting Hux set the distance between them. Poe would happily take the other man into his arms again, like he had at the height of his illness, but something wary and defensive has settled over Hux. He supposes he should have seen this coming. He hadn’t really earned his closeness to Hux; he’d taken it, when the man was so sick Poe feared his imminent death, when he couldn’t push away if he wanted to. (He hadn’t wanted to, though. He’d asked Poe not to go. Maybe they had both used his illness as an excuse.)

Hux settles down within arm’s reach, but just barely. It’s as if he knows that eventually the plummeting temperatures will force the two of them together but is determined to hold it off for as long as possible. Poe accepts this and lays down, pulling the thin, crinkly emergency blanket over his shoulders. His and Hux’s eyes meet and he gives a faint smile; Hux scowls and squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face in the crook of one arm. Poe’s sure he’d turn over if it wouldn’t bother his injured leg.

“So this is our last night together, then.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, it’s been nice getting to know you, Hugs.” Poe’s throat suddenly tightens as he realizes that he means it, and he feels a deep sense of loss at the idea that he might never see the bastard again.

It doesn’t make any sense. Why should he continue to care about Hux if their rescue is imminent? Hadn’t he only cared if Hux lived or died because he hadn’t wanted to be left alone? Because Hux was warm and the rest of the world so cold? Because something about having everything else taken from him had made Poe madly possessive of Hux’s heartbeat? What would his friends say to this—Finn, _Leia?_

_Get your head out of your cockpit, Poe. He’s a mass murderer!_

Now that their rescue is at hand he should go back to hating Hux. Armitage Hux, leader of the organization Poe would give his life to destroy. Armitage Hux, who had stood on a stage in front of hundreds of brainwashed soldiers and given a speech denouncing the Republic, who had ordered the firing of a weapon that had wiped out billions of lives in minutes. Armitage Hux, who Poe now knows from personal experience is selfish, arrogant, and vicious.

Armitage Hux, whose pale face is now softened by a scratchy orange stubble; whose eyes are a strangely clear, inimitable shade of grey-green whether they gleam with fury or amusement; who had chuckled at him, rolled his eyes with something bordering on fondness, who had made him laugh, who had shivered in his arms, who had started to bare his secret wounds at nothing more than a kind word and gentle encouragement. Who treats kindness like it’s something foreign and untrustworthy but that he aches for nonetheless.

Armitage Hux, who is pretending not to have heard him. Poe grins.

“You’re not gonna say it back?”

“What do you want from me, Dameron?” Hux snaps his eyes open only to roll them and sneer. “Yes, your company has turned out not to be completely the worst part of an unfortunate situation. You are infuriating, though I suppose less infuriating than you might be. Does that suffice? Is your ego soothed? Can I sleep now?”

“Sure, buddy.” Poe makes a show of nestling down, squirming under the blanket. “I’ll see you in an hour or so when you wake up because it’s cold and you’re too stubborn to let me come over there now.”

Hux lets out a long, beleaguered sigh.

“Fine,” he mutters, “Just get over here, as long it will stop you from talking.”

Poe smiles. He sits up and scoots over, laying down just a few inches from Hux, careful not to touch his splinted leg. He merges their blankets over them, finding that instant, perfect warmth when Hux tilts his head down and exhales into the space between their bodies. It’s so much better than the fire, better than sleeping alone.

“Not so bad, huh?” Poe whispers.

“Talking.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Through the course of the night they inch closer and closer, until Poe has one arm slung around Hux and Hux has tucked his head in to rest his forehead against Poe’s chest.

By morning, there is no indication that their distress call has been heard.

Hux is tight-lipped and silent the rest of the day, growing more irritable with each hour that passes. He snaps viciously at Poe no matter what he says, so Poe grumbles and falls silent too. Hux sleeps as much as possible; Poe dithers around the cave, checking and re-checking their supplies, not wanting to stray too far in case something happens.

Nothing happens. They crawl into each others’ arms again and Poe can feel the tension surrounding Hux. He’s on the verge of frustrated tears, fear and anger roiling within him. He thinks bloody thoughts about Mitaka and several other officers Poe can’t name, then about the _Finalizer_ as an entity in itself, then about the entire Order. He falls asleep while Poe is still trying to parse how he can see these images so clearly in his mind, and know so completely that they came from Hux.

The next morning, Poe wakes to find that Hux is gone.

Panic grips him; he sits up, staring wildly about the cave, scrambles to his feet and tears outside only to skid to a halt when he sees that Hux has half-dragged, half-limped his way to the mouth of the cave. He’s panting, looking up at the sky with wide eyes, searching the clouds in vain. Waves of resentment, bitter disappointment, and profound loneliness seem to emanate from his tortured pose.

_I’d prefer orbital bombardment to this._

“Was that really an option?” Poe asks, looking fearfully at the sky.

Hux gives him a distracted sidelong glance.

“I didn’t say anything,” he mutters. He slumps back against the cliffside, his arms drawn tight around his lean frame. The wind is soft this morning, ruffling their hair like a soothing hand, lapping at them like gentle waves against the shore. Poe shrugs and goes to sit beside Hux, who looks like he has at last had everything taken from him. He’d thought he had nothing left to lose but yes, there was more, there is always more for the galaxy to take, leaving him to stitch over the gaps, drawing himself tighter and tighter each time.

“Hugs.” Poe can’t take it; he threads an arm around Hux’s waist, pulling the other man snug against his side. Hux releases a single long, deflating breath, dropping his head to Poe’s shoulder.

“He’s not coming. They’ve left—they’re gone.“

“I’m sorry.” And somehow, he is. Hux looks broken. He _feels_ broken. Poe can’t even say how; there’s something inside him that doesn’t want to look too closely at this new sensation, like he’s grown an extra layer of skin that exists solely to house information about Hux. There’s a deep sense of loss coming from the other man—pervasive, cloying. Poe is surprised he can breathe through it. He worries at his lower lip. “We can tune it to Resistance channels. It might take a while for someone to pick up the signal but it’s worth a shot.”

Hux stares blankly into the middle distance. It’s apparent from his expression (or from that new bundle of nerves labeled ‘Hux’ that Poe is trying not to think too deeply about) that he considers this defeat. Poe nudges him, then drags the transmitter over and places the bulky device in Hux’s lap. Hux blinks down at it.

“You could do this yourself,” he mutters. He flips a few switches and then sets it on the ground between them. He’s still leaning heavily against Poe and Poe can tell he’s doing his best not to think about anything at all. Poe uses the hand not currently wrapped around Hux to tune the dials to one of many Resistance emergency channels.

“Okay, see? There we go. We’ll just cycle through a couple of the main channels and someone—someone will hear us. We just have to hold out until then. We’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be fine,” Hux says bitterly. “They’ll probably shoot me on sight.”

“Hux.” Poe licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. The wind swirling around them lifts a few strands of Hux’s hair and they tickle Poe’s chin. “I won’t let them hurt you. You know that, right?”

Hux sighs.

“What do I know, Dameron?” Something deep within Hux unlocks, releasing like a whimper. “You are an extraordinarily kind man. As much as I didn’t want to believe it at first, I’m not one to deny the obvious. But—what we have here, this—camaraderie, this feeling of being on the same side? This will evaporate the second you lay eyes on your friends. You’ll remember who I am then, as determined as you are to avoid it now.”

Poe squeezes Hux even tighter to his side, feeling tears prick his eyes. He’s scared to admit it to himself, but he knows there’s a grain of truth to what Hux is saying.

“I’ve never been able to accept the idea of my own death as anything other than a complete failure, defeat in its ultimate form. I’m not a martyr. I don’t have the capacity to care more about a cause or another person than I care about my own survival. I don’t see this as a flaw. But—if I’m truly at the end of my options, and there is nothing ahead for me but capture, imprisonment, torture, sentencing, and ultimately execution—”

_Don’t say it, don’t say it—_

“Why would I give them the satisfaction? I’m sure what’s left of the Republic is dying to parade me around in manacles. How good for morale, to show the terrible monster in chains. I’m sure your Jedi could take whatever she wanted from my mind, with enough digging. Maybe enough to defeat the Order at last. Certainly better than whatever you have on that little piece of plastic. Ha, you really do win every time, don’t you Dameron?” Hux sighs again, lifting a hand to grasp the sleeve of Poe’s jacket. “Oh, don’t listen to me. I don’t know what I’m saying. Of course there’s no other option. I’ll beg and scrape and debase myself for even the chance of another minute to keep playing this awful game.”

Poe tries not to make it obvious that he’s glad to hear it, though he doesn’t quite manage to suppress a relieved sigh. For a moment the two sit in silence, watching the heavy march of clouds overhead. Poe wonders idly if they ever break, if the sun ever shines. Are there seasons on this moon?

“It’s not so bad out right now,” he says at last, when the silence becomes too much for him. “Warmer than it has been.”

“I’m not interested in discussing the weather.” Hux is still slouched against Poe as if he’s decided he’ll never move again.

“Hux, just—look at me, for a second, will you?” Without thinking about it Poe lifts a hand to touch two fingers lightly under Hux’s chin, tilting his head up. He’s a little bit shocked when Hux goes along with it, and a spike of adrenaline surges through Poe. The ability to move Hux’s head, without him tearing away, with no resistance at all—Poe feels as powerful as Rey had looked, lifting away a mountainside just by raising her arm. His hand is shaking slightly and his heart jumps into a wild rhythm; he almost forgets what he was going to say.

“I promise,” Poe says gravely, when he’s regained his ability to speak, “I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. Whether that’s here, or with the Resistance—it doesn’t matter. You’re still a person, you’re important and I—I care about you.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible.” Hux blinks hard. “You know the terrible things I’ve done. Not all of them,” he chuckles, “But the worst.”

_And terrible things have been done to you_ , Poe thinks. He doesn’t know the shape of them, yet, but he knows they’re there, lurking in Hux’s mind, in his dreams, emblazoned on his arm.

“That should tell you that I’m serious.” Poe just breathes for a moment, looking down at Hux while his heart pounds in his chest. And it’s as inevitable as falling, like taking a step off of a cliff and surrendering to the pull of gravity as he tilts his head down and, with a little sigh, plants a gentle kiss on Hux’s lips.

“Hux,” Poe murmurs, voice husky. He slides his hand from Hux’s chin to cup his jaw, his thumb tracing over the prominent ridge of Hux’s cheek. He waits for Hux to pull away; the man is trembling in his arms, his breath juddering out, hitching on the way back in. But Hux doesn’t move, and Poe suddenly feels something warm and wet beneath his thumb. “Oh, Hux.” He kisses him again, this time lingering in the fragile warmth of Hux’s mouth, reveling in the way the other man sighs and presses up to meet him, moving his lips in hesitant little pushes against Poe’s.

Suddenly Hux shifts so that he’s sitting taller. He wraps a hand around the back of Poe’s neck and draws him in, transforming their first hesitant kiss into one of open-mouthed passion—seeking, fervent, decisive. A flag driven in to the soil. Poe feels utterly claimed by it, like Hux has reached down into his soul and wrapped a possessive hand around it. Poe’s new sense of Hux tells him that Hux is all around him, drawing something from him the longer they kiss. He’s taking and taking, like he took the cooked meat Poe had offered him, and it’s just as selfish and just as harmless as that had been, and Poe is just as glad to give it.

Poe moans; Hux’s lips are soft, his mouth a tantalizing heat that Poe wants to lick into, though he thinks he might die if he does. His heart is beating wildly in his chest and he can’t catch his breath, can only gasp and make little satisfied humming sounds at the back of his throat. Hux’s cheeks are wet; Poe can feel the tears on his own skin. Maybe they’re actually his—he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care.

Hux pulls away after a moment, panting, his lips so perfectly red and kiss-swollen that Poe can’t help but run his thumb over their delicate bow. Hux sighs, eyes falling shut.

“Dameron—”

“Hey,” he says softly, sniffing and then smiling in a watery, fragile sort of way, “it’s Poe.”

#  End Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two will continue in this same work, and there won't be any significant delay in updates, except that I might devote some more time to wrapping up a couple of smaller fic projects for Gingerpilot Week. :)
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me so far, and I hope you're ready for part two, which will feature:
> 
> -Discoveries about the moon  
> -Homemaking, cave style xD  
> -Protective Hux  
> -The Best Handjob Ever(TM)  
> -The morality of Starkiller and the New Republic  
> -Just a godawful amount of kissing


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you've done it, you've hung on for nearly 40,000 words so here's your reward...our first bit of smut. :3

#  Part Two: Foundation

No matter how fast Hux runs, it seems his father’s shuttle never gets any closer.

He sees the engines blazing to life and knows that any second now it will lift off, leaving him on this nameless planet in the Unknown Regions.

He should have known. He should have seen this coming. Of course his father would take this chance to be rid of his disappointing son. Hux blinks away tears, curling his small hands into fists, running as fast as he can on legs that feel too short. Why is he so small? This isn’t right, his father should _fear_ him, he can’t do this to Hux—

“Stop!” Hux shouts, reaching out uselessly as the shuttle heaves itself into the air. “Wait for me! Don’t leave me!”

The shuttle hovers, seeming to hesitate for one cruel moment, and Hux finally catches up to it. He falls to his knees in the shadow of the craft, the wind kicked up from the engines twisting at his cadet’s uniform, sweeping his hair back from his face as he looks up.

“I’m here,” he whispers, just before the shuttle’s engines whine and it accelerates up into the atmosphere. He watches as it grows smaller and smaller, vanishing into a black point that is swallowed up by the clouds.

Hux crosses his thin arms over his chest and curls in on himself. He’s breathing hard, trying to fight back the tears that want to come flooding to the surface. He won’t cry, he’s not a baby, not like his father says. His father had always underestimated him.

“It’s not fair!” He pounds a fist on the ground, letting the anger take over. “I did everything right! Everything you wanted!”

Hux has the highest scores out of any of the cadets—he knows, he’d hacked into the records to check that there was no one ahead of him, there couldn’t be, he is the Commandant’s son and failure is not tolerated. He never makes a mistake twice, not when he pays for them so dearly. Everything, everything his father has ever asked of him he’s done, he’d even killed Albrenn—

Shadows gather at his back as Hux lets loose a furious cry, digging his fingers into the soil. It’s not fair, not fair, he’ll pay for this, his father will _pay._ The sky darkens overhead, the wind howls in his ears and he closes his eyes against the encroaching shadow and the cold it brings and he knows that there is no one coming back for him, that he is alone.

“Hux?”

Hux whips his head up, searching out the voice. The wind sweeps his hair in front of his eyes and he paws at it, shivering.

Poe is standing ahead of him in his rumpled First Order uniform, looking around in confusion.

“Dameron?” Hux blinks. The word feels strange in his mouth, sounds even stranger in his high-pitched voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Where are we? _Hux?_ ” Poe squints at him, like he doesn’t know if that’s really Hux, and anger flares up in the boy.

“Yes!” Hux snaps, curling his lip and hunching in on himself. This isn’t right. Poe isn’t supposed to be here. Hux doesn’t even know how he knows the man’s name when he’s never met him before in his life. And that uniform is wrong, it’s too dark, and what’s the First Order? Had _he_ thought that?

“Oh, hey. Hey.” Poe walks towards him, his hands held out. When he reaches Hux and kneels down he still seems to tower over Hux, and that isn’t right either. Why is he so kriffing _big?_ Hux knows that he is taller than Poe. Or he should be. Poe shifts closer and Hux flinches, bringing his arms up to cover his head. But all Poe does is move so that he’s blocking the wind.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. It’s okay.”

“Nothing is okay!” Hux drops his arms and stares defiantly up at the man. “They left me behind! I’m going to die here! You’re an _idiot!_ ” He punches Poe’s stomach, not hard though, not really wanting to hurt him. Poe makes a little ‘oof’ sound and chuckles.

“Yep, you’re definitely Hux.”

“Of course I am! Who told you I’m not? I’ll kill them. I’ll kill anyone who says I’m not a Hux, they don’t get to talk to me like that anymore!” He’s dangerous. He has the knife Rax gave him and his father’s assassins listen to _him_ , now. People don’t get to talk to him that way anymore, they don’t get to say he’s not his father’s son.

“Oh no, no. No one said you weren’t, you just don’t look like the Hux I know.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Hux is close to tears again and that makes him even angrier.

“It doesn’t matter.” Poe puts his hands on Hux’s shoulders and they’re too big, or maybe Hux is too small. None of this is right. He shouldn’t want to lean in to Poe’s embrace but he does it anyway, his small fists grabbing at the front of the uniform. When Poe wraps his arms around Hux he shelters him completely, and Hux finds that he wants to hide here for a very long time. It’s weak, it’s foolish, Poe is probably just trying to trick him like everyone else does, but he can’t make himself stop. He needs this. Even if it’s fake. Even if it will hurt when it’s ripped away.

“You’re okay. Everything is gonna be just fine, I promise.”

“It’s not.” Hux struggles to keep his voice steady, and it comes out a little shaky anyway. “He left me here on purpose. He hates me.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing you’re away from him, right?”

“What?” He looks up at Poe, the side of his face still pressed to Poe’s chest. Poe is looking down at him and smiling. “I—I don’t know.” He’d never thought of that before. Brendol is all he has. Hux has no choice but to try to please him, make him proud—though he knows he never will. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what to do.” The sky grows darker and the wind picks up. Hux’s fists tighten in Poe’s shirt and he cowers against him.

“Do you want to wake up?” Poe asks.

“I—” Hux gasps, his heart slamming in his chest. “I don’t know, I don’t know what you mean—”

Thunder crashes and lightning rents the air, sending an electric crackle through his skin.

“Wake up, Hux. Wake up.”

Suddenly, Poe is gone. Hux falls forward, the full force of the wind whipping against him.

“Poe? Poe!”

His voice echoes around him, taunting him as he hears how scared, how _young_ he sounds, too young—

Hux’s eyes fly open and he stares at the cave ceiling as he catches his breath. His heart is pounding and the dream is all around him, terror nestled against his skin. There’s nothing to be afraid of, he tells himself, nothing even that terrible had happened in the dream. Yet somehow he feels like he just barely escaped with his life.

“Hux?”

Hux jumps a bit and turns to find Poe laying on his side and staring at him, those brown eyes wide with concern.

“ _You._ ” Hux scrambles to push himself up. “You were there, weren’t you?”

Hux hadn’t dreamt of Poe. Poe had _shown up_ in his dream. He’d violated Hux’s mind, he’d pushed his way in where he didn’t belong—

“Hux,” Poe reaches out one hand, “I’m sorry, I _really_ didn’t mean to, it just happened—“

Hux is on him in a flash.

His leg screams in protest as he launches himself onto Poe. One hand slams into his shoulder, knocking Poe to the ground. He twists his wrist and triggers the mechanism in the scabbard that releases his knife; it springs into his hand and he presses the monomolecular edge to the soft meat of Poe’s throat.

Hux’s entire body is shaking with rage, but his knife hand is eerily calm. A good thing for Poe, or he’d already be dead.

Poe has gone completely still beneath him. His eyes are very wide. Hux’s breath comes harshly as he bares his teeth and growls,

“ _Stay out of my head._ ”

“Hux,” Poe breaths out. His hands are palm-up on the ground on either side of his head. As he swallows, a thin line of blood wells up where the infinitely sharp edge of the blade presses into his flesh.

“Whatever you have done, _undo it!”_ Hux shouts. His arm is shaking from holding himself up. His chest is pressed to Poe’s, their legs hopelessly tangled, faces inches apart. He grabs Poe’s collar, elbow digging into the other man’s ribs. “Or I swear upon all the stars I will end you now.”

“I didn’t do this.” Poe’s voice is low, quick, steady. “I don’t know what’s happening. If I had a choice I’d stop it now but I don’t know if I can. Hux. _Hux._ Don’t do this.”

“I don’t believe you.” This is more rebel trickery, like that stupid stunt over D’Qar. Poe waving one hand to grab his attention while the other slides a knife home, nestled between his ribs. His heart is slamming in his chest, adrenaline surging in him as he realizes—he can _feel_ Poe’s sincerity. The other man isn’t lying, Hux _knows_ he isn’t lying, and that sends him into a sickening tailspin of fear.

“Yeah, you do,” Poe says quietly.

“Shut up!” Hux leans even closer, shifting his body on top of Poe’s. “I’ll kill you!”

What he won’t do is let another soul in this galaxy have access to his mind.

“Think about this, Hux. If you kill me, you’ll run out of food in a couple days. If the Resistance comes before then, there’ll be no one to vouch for you.”

“Oh, and you would?” Hux sneers.

“I would.” The words echo in his heart with a hollow thud.

“It doesn’t matter.” Hux can’t stop his hands from shaking so he inches the pressure of the blade off of Poe’s neck, keeping it there, smearing the blood across his skin. “I won’t let you do this. I won’t take this from _you.”_

He’d had no choice but to endure it from Snoke and Ren, but he won’t go through it again. He’d die first.

“It’s not like it was with them.”

“Don’t read my thoughts!”

“ _I can’t help it!_ Hux, look at me!” Poe’s hands suddenly grip Hux’s shoulders and Hux jolts, barely managing to keep the knife from sinking into Poe’s throat. Poe stares up at him, breathing just as wildly as Hux now as he says slowly, _forcefully_ , driving every word into Hux: “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The truth of it slams into Hux. His throat closes and his eyes sting, voice trembling as he slowly shakes his head.

“You don’t know that. If you can’t control it—“

“We’ll figure it out,” Poe says quickly. “We’ll figure it out together. Because Hux, whatever I’m doing— _you can do it too._ ”

“No. No, no, that’s not how this goes.”

His leg is on fire. Hux shifts, trying to hold himself up but leaning heavily against Poe. He’s caught in a web of indecision and fear, his mind telling him to slit Poe’s throat now and be done with it, it’s the only way to be certain that he’ll never suffer at this man’s hands like he had for those others. He’s staring at Poe and he knows what the other man must see—eyes wide, pupils dilated, nostrils flaring, lips pulled back from his teeth.

_He called me a rabid cur_ , Hux thinks. _He was right._

Poe’s hands are moving, sliding down his arms to his hips. He takes hold of Hux and shifts him so that he’s perched firmly on top of Poe, taking the weight off of his leg.

“I’d never hurt you,” Poe whispers. “Never again.”

“What are you doing?” Hux stiffens with an entirely new sense of alarm as he realizes that lying on top of Poe like this is not unpleasant. The other man is warm beneath him, and he likes the way Poe’s chest pushes up against his own as he breathes.

His fist tightens around his weapon, as if he can hold these feelings at knifepoint, too.

“You’re not gonna kill me.” Poe’s hands, infuriatingly, are still on Hux’s hips, and Hux glowers down at him. “Or you would have already.”

“Shut up.” Hux just needs to think. There has to be a way around this, surely he isn’t really doomed to this—to endure the way Poe looks smugly up at him because he knows he’s right, because for some Force-forsaken reason he can read Hux’s mind. None of this is fair.

Poe opens his mouth to say something else and Hux growls, can’t stand the thought of hearing one more idiotic word out of his mouth. So with his knife still pressed to Poe’s pulse point Hux dives down and seals his lips with a furious kiss.

“Just shut up,” he mutters against Poe’s lips, pulling the bottom lip between his teeth, releasing it with a gasp. “Shut up. Shut up.” He nips at Poe’s mouth, animalistic, hungry. His hand comes up to tangle fiercely in Poe’s hair, clenching the curls tight between his fingers.

“Not saying anything,” Poe says huskily. He shifts his hips just slightly, enough for Hux to finally realize that—well. Apparently something about being held at knifepoint had stirred Poe’s interest.

The knife. Right.

Hux lifts the blade away, sliding it back into its scabbard with a _snick._

Then both of his hands are diving in to Poe’s hair, and Hux tilts his head down to lap at the faint smear of blood on his throat. Poe shudders and releases a shaky exhale, something of a laugh to it.

“Oh,” he breathes out, “You’re _weird.”_

But it isn’t an admonition. Hux feels the flame of Poe’s lust stirring as surely as his own. He moans into Poe’s neck, sealing his lips over the coppery taste of blood, the salty tang of sweat.

Hux is suddenly overwhelmed by the presence of _Poe._ Poe is everywhere—all around him, pressing in close. He resists the urge to frisk his arms, like there’s something crawling over him. He wants to throw Poe off, get rid of him somehow, but it isn’t even like it was with Ren. When Hux tries to bring up mental walls he finds that Poe is already inside them.

The feeling is strange. He is so used to being alone.

Hux shudders. Fear nestles in his breast, thrumming against the walls of his heart.

He pauses to burrow his nose into the join of Poe’s neck and jaw and inhale as deeply as he can.

The scent grounds him, and he feels the fear retreating to some place outside of the bubble growing around himself and Poe. He opens his mouth against Poe’s flesh, resuming his frenzied exploration of this new thing offering itself up for conquest, his greed growing along with his lust.

“I’m not the one,” he drags his teeth over the line of Poe’s jaw, “who got fucking hard when the knives came out.” He draws in a hissing breath as he reaches Poe’s ear and takes the lobe in between his teeth, pulling and releasing it, letting it spring back. “You beautiful, horrible thing.” He wants to take Poe apart, in all the worst ways.

Poe’s arms wrap around Hux, crushing him to his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Oh, fuck, _Hux_.” He squirms under Hux, hips seeking out friction, frustrated by the many layers of clothes between them.

His leg bumps into Hux’s injured one, and Hux goes stiff as a board, fingers clenching into fists as he suppresses a grunt.

“Kriff, I’m sorry!” Poe’s hands are on his hips again, and he slowly maneuvers Hux to the side, helping him slide as gracefully as he can off of Poe. “Here, like this, come here.”

Poe scoots Hux back until he’s propped against the wall, leg stuck out awkwardly in front of him. Poe kneels between his legs, takes his face gently between his hands and kisses him, slowly this time, working his way into Hux’s mouth. They drink each other in, jaws moving in tandem as they open for each other, and soon Hux forgets about the pain in his leg. Poe tastes so good, and he tells him so, his hand coming up to tangle in his curls again.

After so much hardship and hunger and pain, the pleasure he finds in touching and being touched by Poe is something otherworldly. He’s certain he’s never felt this good, never wanted to live inside of a moment as much as this one right here.

Poe places a hand on Hux’s crotch, and Hux shivers, little ripples of arousal lighting up his nerves. He’s hard, despite everything—or because of it—and he feels a bit ashamed of it, like he should have had more control over himself, but how could he when Poe is kneeling before him like this?

“Is this okay?” Poe breathes into his mouth, and Hux makes a most undignified little whimper as Poe adds a bit more pressure.

“Dameron—“

He wants to tell Poe that they shouldn’t. That kissing is one thing, but the farther they go with this, the harder it will be when it all has to come to an end. And does Poe really want to watch them parade Hux around their filthy rebel base in chains when he holds all these intimate memories of him? The less they do, the easier it will be in the end—but—

But—

“Please, Hux, I—“ Poe makes a pained little sound as he kisses Hux again. “I want to make you feel good. For _once._ Please, let me make you feel good.”

A full-body shudder steals Hux’s breath.

He decides Poe is very pretty, when he begs.

“Alright.” Despite himself Hux is nodding, capturing Poe’s lips again and again, breath quickening as Poe unbuttons his trousers, a low moan escaping him as Poe works a hand into his briefs and wraps a warm hand around his cock.

It’s good, _far_ too good. Hux is completely hard, the head of his cock glistening with a bead of pre-come. Poe glides his thumb through it and Hux is lost; he tips his head forward until his forehead presses against Poe’s and he whines, like an animal in heat. For the first time since their crash, the pain in his leg is a distant thing, and his overwhelming sense is one of pleasure. A heady, glowing, intoxicating sensation that rolls through him, nearly cracking his spine.

“Ohhhh. _Hux._ ”

Through the rapid-fire sensations taking hold of him, Hux manages to put together the realization that Poe is feeling this, too. Poe’s mouth is hanging open, lips quirked into the tiniest of blissful smiles as his hand moves over Hux. Hux is transfixed by the sight. Poe’s eyes fall shut and he gives a pronounced shudder, and bucks into the air just as a wave of ecstasy nearly overcomes Hux.

“I can feel—you,” Poe gasps, coming in closer, hand cupping the back of Hux’s neck. “Hux, Hux. I can— _oh._ Oh!”

“Yes,” Hux breathes. He tips his head back, hands gripping Poe’s shoulders, toes curling in his boots. Poe’s mouth is suddenly on the side of his neck, wet and hot and sucking gently. Hux groans, pleasure coiling tight in his belly. Poe’s hand feels _perfect_ on him, stroking in a rhythm that’s just shy of fast enough to get him off. Heat pools in his groin as he spirals higher, riding a wave of sensation that seems to roll on and on.

Poe is bent over him, panting, groaning as he feels Hux’s pleasure, as it takes hold of him as well. His other hand fumbles for the clasps on the front of his own trousers, and Poe pulls himself out. But instead of stroking himself for some relief he goes right back to Hux—thumb moving over the sensitive head of his cock, mouth soft and lovely as he plants wet kisses up and down Hux’s neck. His other hand paws into Hux’s hair, massaging the scalp, and Hux is blessed with the brief image of Poe’s hands on the controls of his X-wing, executing two contradictory motions in perfect synchrony.

The idea of Poe manipulating him like those delicate controls tips Hux over into the blinding heat of orgasm. He shouts, lost to the sensation as his whole body arches, draws taut and then snaps. He hears Poe moaning as well, and knows that Poe just came as an aftershock almost as strong as his orgasm grips him. He shudders and then melts into Poe’s hands.

Steeped in the buzzing afterglow of their shared pleasure, Hux doesn’t think. He lets himself drift on this feeling—empty-headed, yet otherwise filled to the brim.

Poe moves first—does something to clean them up, right their clothes. Then his hand is on Hux’s chest and, with something of an effort, Hux focuses his eyes on Poe’s too-smug face.

“You alright there?”

“Yes.” Hux shrugs off the complacency, as if shedding a thick skin. “That was nice. Thank you.”

“Oh—you’re welcome. I mean, it was—it was nice for me, too.” Poe laughs, a nervous sound that Hux has never heard from him before. He kneels awkwardly in front of Hux for a moment, and Hux steels himself against the flood of emotions coming from the other man: desire, hesitation, happiness, fear. It’s almost like the pain of overstimulation after sex: it’s simply _too much_ , to feel Poe’s feelings along with his own.

And he can’t stop it.

He knows Poe wants to crawl into his arms like a child, or—stars forbid—a _lover._ Hux gives a single, firm shake of his head, and Poe sighs. He sits next to Hux instead, back to the wall, a few inches separating them.

Morning is just starting to dawn outside the cave, and the fire is flickering low. It will be ash soon.

“Are you—“ Hux begins, at the same time as Poe says,

“What—“

They both stop. Hux sighs, and gives a little wave of his hand, indicating Poe should speak first.

“What I saw. Your dream. Was it real?”

That is not what Hux was expecting. He blinks, then shrugs brusquely.

“Of course not. If my father had really abandoned me on that planet I’d be dead.” _And you’d be back with the Resistance, and Hosnia would still exist._

“Hmmm.” Poe looks down at his hands. “What were you going to ask?”

Hux was going to ask if Poe planned on going out to hunt today. Now, the question seems absurd—mundane, _domestic._ So instead he asks,

“How long have you known you had the Force?”

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Impossibly, terribly, something to do with the Force is responsible for this—whatever this is. Hux hesitates to think of it as a connection.

“I don’t have the Force,” Poe says firmly. “Or at least, I never thought I did. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. You?”

“Obviously, no.”

Hux has the sudden urge to bury his face in his hands.

The awkward silence descends on them again. When Poe can’t stand it any longer, he picks up his tools and leaves, promising to bring back dinner. Looking (and feeling) hurt when Hux doesn’t give him the gratitude he’s looking for.

Poe is gone for a very long time.

Hux doesn’t worry. He knows now that there is nowhere for Poe to go, no way he can abandon Hux. And, though he shoves it to the back of his mind and refuses to acknowledge it, Hux can simply feel—the way he feels cold and heat, the way he feels hunger and satisfaction: easily, instinctively, thoughtlessly—that Poe is not in danger.

The danger is not out there, where Poe hunts and gathers firewood. The danger is above them, beyond that dense bank of grey clouds where Hux cannot see or feel it. It could be hanging there now like his father’s shuttle in his dreams—taunting him with arrival, rather than departure.

The Resistance. They could be here any moment. Or they could never show up, though Hux won’t bank on that. He isn’t even sure which fate is worse, now—capture by the enemy, torture and death, or simply curling up in this cold little hole in the ground and dying that way. All he knows is that he needs more _time_ —for what, he can’t seem to put a finger on. Time to plan. Time to figure this all out.

_Not yet,_ he thinks at the sky when he painfully drags himself out of the cave, at a loss for what else to do. _Not yet, not yet, give me time._

Melancholy takes hold of him so easily, now.

He leans against the cliffside, watching the last of the light seeping out of the sky. Sunset is an insubstantial thing in this place; there is no great dramatic shifting of colors, nothing but the whimper of a fading sun. It sinks below the horizon and Hux imagines that it goes with a relieved little sigh, like an exhausted man relinquishing his grip on whatever bit of floating detritus had kept him above the surface. Happy to die and go to that oblivion where nothing hurts. It’s hard to even tell when the sun has finally set; it’s only something you notice after it’s already gone.

His memories unfurl with a sudden snap, like a carpet that has been tightly rolled for long enough that the material aches at the new shape. Sunsets on Arkanis had been beautiful things, when the rain had let up enough to see them. Deep purple warring with brilliant orange across a sky dappled and pocked with clouds, the light scattered haphazardly across the droplets of water still clinging to every leaf and blade of grass, making them sparkle like a multitude of stars.

A slender, pale arm wrapping around his shoulders and the ghost of thin blonde hair brushing against his face. He’d inhaled the tang of herbs and clean scent of flour that meant _her_. And she had been the one to tell him that the stars beneath their feet were real, that when they were together space and soil were as one.

Hux shakes his head. The thoughts cloy to him like something external. They rattle his core, and he knows that his very sense of self is in some sort of mortal danger here. He turns his head to where he knows he will see the muddy darkness taking shape into Poe. Poe, who is rushing to him now, telling him he shouldn’t be trying to walk with his leg, and Hux thinks _what does it matter, it hurts no matter what I do_.

Poe opens his mouth to respond, yet again, to something Hux has not voiced, and Hux silences him with a glare. He shrugs off Poe’s help and hobbles back into the cave himself. Poe is fussing; Hux is baffled at this. He barely has to put any weight on his leg at all when he clings pathetically to the wall, though he is breathing hard by the time he makes it back to what has, embarrassingly, come to be his ‘spot’.

Poe has fashioned himself a sort of sling from one of the canvas sacks he’d taken from the shuttle, and it lays heavy across his chest with the things he’d found outside the cave. There is some manner of pride in his demeanor that intrigues Hux, despite himself. He crosses his arms to ward off the cold and leans back against the wall with his eyebrow lifted. Poe kneels before him—like he had that morning, Hux thinks, and Poe hears him thinking—and starts to lay it all out in front of Hux. He’s quiet, almost reverent, bringing out each new thing like a treasure: more of the little animal carcasses, and now some dirt-covered fleshy things that look like they could be mushrooms.

When Poe’s sling is empty he sits back on his heels and places his palms on his knees and waits. He is proud of himself, but penitent, as if this is his apology for being in Hux’s head.

Hux picks up one of the mushroom-things. He’s happy with this, happy with Poe for finding it because it will be good for them to eat something other than meat. It doesn’t look particularly edible at the moment but Hux has seen the transformation of raw things into delicacies. He knows about potential.

“Where did you find this?”

“They grow near the trees.” Poe beams, as if Hux has given him some sort of effusive praise. Satisfied with this acceptance of his offering, he gets up and starts building the fire back up, breaking sticks for kindling, stacking the logs carefully. “They’ve been covered by the snow. Just had to brush it aside and there they were, all along. Something just told me where to look.”

Hux suppresses a shiver.

“There should be test strips in the survival pack,” he says. When Poe hands him the packet his fingers brush against Hux’s and Hux knows this is another venture, another attempt to connect the way Poe thought they had that morning. But Hux has mislead Poe, and what Poe mistook for passion was just a fluke. He doesn’t have anything in him anymore beyond these practicalities that may keep them alive long enough for him to die elsewhere. He takes the packet and opens it, begins the process of testing the mushrooms to see if these are another attempt by the galaxy on his life. They are not.

Poe washes the mushrooms in the plastic bin while Hux skins the carcasses. They work in silence; Poe is disappointed in him, and Hux resents this because he has been nothing but cordial and efficient and hasn’t tried to kill Poe in a very long time. (This morning had been a _threat_ , that was different than an _attempt_ , and surely Poe is generous enough to count it.) He sets aside the pelts, intending to save them from now on. Just in case.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I will get to replying to everyone's comments! I'm sorry I've been slow, but I adore receiving them and reading them and appreciate you all so much. <3
> 
> There is a warning for this chapter for some ableist language from Hux right at the beginning.

_Worthless. Pathetic._

Poe turns over, trying to shut the voice out of his head. But Hux’s inner monologue is thick in the air. Somehow, Poe tuned into it, and he can’t seem to tune out.

_Like father always said. No, he was a fool. (I’m the fool.) Look at what you’ve done. You had everything and you/I let it slip away._

His thoughts seesaw between intense self-deprecation and vicious self-defense, between first person speech and addressing himself as if he were someone else, as if putting the slightest bit of distance between himself and this other that he is so mercilessly tearing down could shield him from the way it cuts into his soul. Poe winces, the feedback from Hux’s feelings so strong he feels it as a physical pain in his chest.

_And now look what you’ve done. You deserve this, you know. You did this to yourself. All of it. You’re a fucking cripple now, you know that? Even if everything else goes right—and it won’t—you’ll never be able to walk properly again. Fucking useless._

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if Poe couldn’t also feel how routine these thoughts are, for Hux. Hux doesn’t seem surprised at them, doesn’t respond to it with anything more than a resigned sense of here-we-are-again. He is used to this. This is how he thinks of himself. This is how it’s always been.

_I deserve this,_ Hux tells himself, thinking of every misfortune that has ever befallen him. Despite himself, Poe tries to get a glimpse of what these might be—but Hux’s memories are hidden behind a dense cloud, one that gives Poe an odd sense of static when he prods at it, almost as if his hand had fallen asleep. All Poe can tell is that when Hux thinks _this_ , he doesn’t just mean crashing on this moon. He means everything. Poe wishes he knew what that was.

_I deserve this. Everyone gets just what they deserve. I should’ve worked harder. I should’ve been smarter. I should’ve seen this coming. I was weak and lazy and foolish, I’m such a fucking moron, I deserve every bit of this._

Poe thinks of Starkiller Base. He wonders what lengths he would go to to stop those thoughts, if he were in Hux’s place.

*

Poe grunts as he drops a pile of firewood near the back of the cave. He’s always making these excessive little sounds that should annoy Hux greatly, yet instead he finds them oddly comforting.

Hux can tell something is on Poe’s mind even before he turns to Hux with his hands on his hips—such a silly posture, yet it seems to give Poe a sense of authority. Perhaps he feels the need to take up more space horizontally to make up for his lack in the vertical dimension.

“We should talk.”

“About what?” Hux responds archly, not looking up from his task of scraping another pelt clean. As if he doesn’t know exactly what Poe is talking about. As if he doesn’t _always_ know exactly what Poe is talking about, nowadays. He resists the urge to rub his forehead. He’s felt a phantom sense of pressure, an unpleasant _fullness_ there this past week since he realized he can sense Poe’s thoughts along with his own.

_About this,_ Poe says, pushing the thought directly into Hux’s mind.

“Stop!” Terror whips through him, all rational thought banished from his mind in an instant. All he can think is that he has to get away, put distance between himself and the source of the voice in his head. It is an automatic reaction as Hux snaps his head up and hurls the knife into the ground at Poe’s feet, missing his big toe by an inch. Poe yelps and jumps back.

“Stars! _Careful,_ Hux!”

“You are the one who should be careful.” Hux tries to get control of his rapid breath and pounding heart. He balls his hands into fists, gripping the material of his trousers, trying to hide that they’re shaking. He grits his teeth and growls, “Stay out of my head.”

He can’t _believe_ this.

Arguably the only thing good about leaving the First Order was getting out from under the thumb of a Force-user who had had no compunction about invading his mind. Hux can’t use the Force. As far as he knows _Poe_ cannot use the Force, so this development vexes him. Almost as much as the constant threat of the Resistance arriving at their doorstep to whisk him away to a prison cell.

“Alright,” Poe says. “That’s fair. I’m sorry. Sometimes it just—it happens.”

“You say that too often.”

“Well it does!” Poe’s anger is hot and quick and Hux—Hux loves it. He blinks. He hadn’t expected that feeling, a fondness welling up so suddenly in him but Poe’s anger tastes like the spices in his mother’s favorite dish, the kind that were ground from the seeds of a pepper that grew in the kitchen garden at the Academy. It’s warm and it’s—safe, somehow. Hux knows that Poe’s anger would never turn against him like his father’s or Ren’s. Poe’s anger is a flavor that Hux suddenly wants on his tongue. Poe pauses in his rant, his expression freezing. Then confusion coalesces into interest, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, and one eyebrow arches nearly to his hairline.

He huffs out a laugh, and Hux blushes scarlet.

Poe removes the axe from his belt and sets it aside, then comes to sit next to Hux.

“See something you like, Hugs?” Poe scoots closer and Hux leans away.

“You’re still in my head,” he says, weakly. Poe’s eyes are very dark. “I told you not to do that.”

“I’m sorry.” Poe’s apology is sincere, but his voice has taken on a murmuring, coaxing quality, like a curled finger beckoning Hux closer. “I don’t know how to get out. But you’re in my head too, you know. So I guess we’re even.”

“We are not.” Hux puts a shaking hand on Poe’s chest, keeping him right where he is. He’s very much overwhelmed by the too-big presence of Poe, who is everywhere again. He’s here sitting very close to Hux but he’s also wrapped around them both and he’s grown to fill the cave. Hux focuses on breathing regularly despite the way his heart has jumped to attention, thrumming along too fast. “You read my thoughts. I can hear your voice, you’re just—you’re just like him.”

Hux brings his hand back to his own chest, curling it into a fist.

“I’m not, Hugs.” Poe embraces him loosely, his hands on Hux’s back. “I’m not, and you know it. Stop lying to yourself. Stop lying to _me.”_ He chuckles. “It hurts my feelings.” He strokes Hux’s upper back. “And I hear your voice, too. How do you know when you hear mine that means I’m in your head? Maybe you’re in mine. Or maybe that’s not really how any of this works.”

Hux feels dizzy. He doesn’t like the implications that surface from this new insight, because they seem to point to a dissolution of boundaries entirely. Poe is right. Hux _doesn’t_ know who is in whose head, and that terrifies him even more than the thought that Poe is reading his mind.

“I don’t know why this is happening. I didn’t do it on purpose—I know you think I did.” Poe draws Hux against his chest and Hux allows it, because there is literally nothing else for him to do. Poe chuckles again, rubbing his hand up and down Hux’s arm. “I know you think I’ve got some nefarious reason behind everything I do. But I’m a simple guy, Hugs.” His hand trails up to Hux’s face and Hux shivers at the gentle touch. “Why haven’t we kissed again?”

“What?” Hux blinks at the sudden subject change.

“Can I kiss you again?”

“That’s a different question.” And yes, Hux will hang his hat on technicalities so long as it keeps Poe exactly where he is—close enough to taste him on every inhale, far enough away to fool himself that this is nothing.

“It’s the one I meant to ask.” Poe’s voice is husky in a way that makes Hux tremble. His hand is warm against Hux’s cheek, the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention as Poe moves his thumb until it touches the bow of Hux’s upper lip.

Hux can’t do this. His breath comes quickly as he straightens and turns to Poe, but finds himself unable to put any distance at all between them. He’s hovering in Poe’s orbit, drawn ever closer, wanting to feel the way he’d felt kissing him the first time, wanting to claim him all over again. He _wants_ Poe, so fiercely it hurts, so intent on the possessive desire that he would relish the opportunity to express it in the way he knows best—violence, against anything or any one who would tear them apart right now.

But he can’t let himself fall into that trap, he can’t do it, because this is temporary. And one day it _will_ end, not with some outside force ripping them apart, but with Poe turning away from him when he finally remembers who Hux is. If Hux gives in to this now, when that day comes he’s not sure he’ll survive it. He’s not sure he can bear to know what it’s like to be the object of Poe’s affection—his unbearable kindness, the softness of his mouth—only to lose it all in the end.

Poe must sense his fear, but not the source of it, because he leans forward until their noses touch, his hands solid as they cup Hux’s jaw.

“C’mon, Hux,” Poe murmurs against his lips. “I’m scared too. Don’t you see?” He nudges his nose against Hux’s. “Come in. I’ll show you.”

Like the red light of Starkiller swelling on the horizon, blasting the atmosphere with heat and light—Poe’s thoughts open up to Hux. Hux, eager to forget his own fears, gives himself up to his intellectual curiosity, and flexes this odd new muscle as he explores the bond between them.

Poe doesn’t really think in words, Hux is surprised to find. Instead, he sees a series of images, flashing too quickly to discern at first. It’s an unfamiliar language to Hux, who now understands—only by virtue of being shown this other mode—that he himself thinks largely in words, phrases, half-formed sentences stacked on top of each other and balanced like a chemical equation until a consensus is reached.

They’re not just images—more like impressions, that open up like nesting dolls when he dives into them. It’s with a distinct sense of vertigo that Hux barely pulls himself back from the brink: there’s danger here, as he can spiral down and down and down without end. The art in this, he thinks, must be in knowing exactly how far to delve to discern what he came here for without getting trapped in the labyrinth of Poe’s thoughts.

So. What he came here for.

With what Hux can only describe as an overwhelming sense of the color brown (further: warmth, soil, engine grease) and the faint whiff of ozone (containing: sparks, dust, soldered scrap metal), he understands that Poe is thinking about the Resistance. Worrying about them, more accurately. Why haven’t they arrived? Have they received the distress signal? Are they too pressed by the demands of war to respond?

Have they been wiped out, at last?

It crashes over Hux all at once: Poe’s _fear._ Naked, visceral, held only just in check. Poe is terrified, nearly out of his mind with it, that the Resistance has been defeated while he has been stuck here. That if he hadn’t tried to be the hero by sneaking on to the _Steadfast_ , he would have been there with them, and he could have helped.

This thread of guilt is like a wide avenue that connects all of Poe’s thoughts. Hux frowns and closes his eyes, and follows it to the source. There is pain at the end of it—actual, physical pain. Poe is in the interrogation chair aboard the _Finalizer_ , more than a year ago, when everything had begun to fall apart for the both of them.

Hux breaks away from the images. The cave solidifies around him: the whistle of the wind outside, the warmth of Poe’s arms.

“You.” Hux opens his eyes, narrows them. “You blame yourself.” He places a hand on the side of Poe’s face, fingertips to temple, palm to cheek. “But that’s absurd, Poe.”

Poe grins.

“You said my name.”

“I’m constantly saying your name.”

“Yeah, but not my first name. I like it.”

“You told me to address you this way.” Hux is getting flustered. And then he realizes: Poe is deflecting. His eyes unfocus as he latches on to this observation and, with the clumsy grip he has on the strange thing between them, peels back the thin veneer of Poe’s teasing. It’s covering something raw. “You…do this often. Make jokes to distract yourself, and others.”

“No one wants to hear me complaining.” Poe tries for a smile and drops his gaze, but Hux suddenly grips him by the chin and tilts his head back up.

“Complaints are legitimate.” He would know; he had an entire team back on the _Finalizer_ to handle complaints. “They alert you to malfunctions in the system. But you haven’t told anyone how you felt after you were interrogated. Were you even treated for it?”

“I just had a few scrapes.” Deflection, deflection. How had Hux never seen it before? “I didn’t want them to pull me from the next mission.”

“I don’t mean your physical wounds.” _Idiot. He is beautiful though. I like looking at him. I could look at him for a very long time. I hope he didn’t hear that._ “I mean the mental probe. Your guilt at giving up the location of the map.” Hux’s heart is beating fast again. He can feel a tight little knot of pain in the core of Poe’s being and when he digs into it it unravels until it’s too big to hold. There’s more, and more, and more. Flashes of memory. His interrogation—Starkiller—the traitor FN-2187 along with some small woman. Poe feels he sent them into danger for nothing.

“I got so many people killed,” Poe whispers, as Hux’s mind fills with the image of the transports above Crait, blossoming one by one into fiery peals of destruction.

Hux winces, realizing he is on the firing end of so many of Poe’s wounds.

“They’re just people,” he scoffs, bristling against the onslaught of emotion—his _and_ Poe’s. “There are billions of them in the galaxy.”

Poe jerks his head back, shocked. Then his expression relaxes. “You don’t mean that.”

“Of course I do.”

“You don’t. You know—”

Phasma. The sound of thousands of stormtroopers marching in perfect synchronicity.

“—everyone is unique, an _individual_ , worth something.”

A woman draped in purple robes.

Hux blinks, shakes his head. He doesn’t know whose memories he’s seeing as the purple woman streaks across space and splits the _Supremacy_ in twain. It was one of his greatest defeats, a Resistance victory—but Poe doesn’t rejoice in it. He mourns for that woman he hadn’t even liked, and now, for the first time—guilt swirling up like a tangible thing between them, oily and perverse—wonders who from the First Order had died in the attack, despairs as he realizes that _Hux_ could have died and Poe would have cheered at the time.

“You don’t—” Hux breaks off with a growl, dropping his hands to grip the front of Poe’s shirt and forming tight fists around the fabric. “You don’t have to _blame_ yourself for everything. Poe. Do you hear me?” Poe is looking down at Hux’s lap, his emotions swirling dark around him. Hux shakes the other man, and Poe looks up, his eyes snapping back into focus.

“Yeah, I hear you, I just—” Poe’s voice is subdued, raw with emotion. He clears his throat. “I just wish I was better.”

“What?” Hux feels as if his stomach has been ripped out of him. Poe’s arrogance, his cocksure attitude—it’s gone. And Hux is—feeling. Something. He doesn’t know what it is; some part of him wants to reach out and _soothe_ away this hurt of Poe’s. But Hux has never been that person. Everyone who ever knew him would laugh at the thought of Hux giving comfort.

“I wish I was better, Hux.” Poe’s eyes are wide and glistening. He seems to have trouble swallowing, making his voice work again. He laughs but there is no joy in it, and Hux realizes for the first time that Poe’s good cheer is finite. “I don’t think I’m good enough.”

As he says it, Hux’s inner eye is fairly assaulted by the singular, burning presence of a woman with dark hair and eyes, seated in the cockpit of an unfamiliar craft. But it’s reminiscent of a single-person fighter, of what Poe flies, and Hux can make the inference. Poe has her nose.

Hux breathes out through his nose in something that is not quite a laugh, banishing the image from his mind. He has no use for ghosts.

“That’s absurd. I think you are the best person I have ever met.” He brushes Poe’s shoulders, endeavoring to keep his voice steady when he feels like he’s holding his heart on his tongue. “I don’t want you to be any better, if you were then we would have nothing in common and you would have shot me on sight like good Rebel scum.” _And you wouldn’t let me touch you like this._

He hopes Poe doesn’t hear that.

He can feel the way these words buoy Poe, and in return it gives Hux a rush to know that he can have such an effect on someone. He never thought he would ever make anyone feel _better_ but Poe is smiling at him now. And his eyes really are unfairly large, especially when they’re shining up at him, especially when Poe is leaning in and Hux feels his warm breath on his lips.

“You’re being so nice to me,” Poe murmurs. Hux kisses him to keep him from saying more, to keep himself from pointing out that he knows a thing or two about using arrogance to cover up the indecency of self-doubt. Once, he would have laughed at the idea that he had anything in common with Poe, other than ending up here together, but he supposes stranger things have happened in this galaxy. As they kiss, as Poe’s beard scratches at Hux’s chin, he imagines what he would say to one of his pilots if they’d shown such a lack of confidence in their actions.

If Poe were one of his pilots, things would not be easy, but they would still be so much easier than this.

He would take Poe to his quarters, maintaining an air of professional disinterest until after the doors had closed behind them, when no one could see the way he’d grip at Poe’s shoulders, tearing at his shirt, pushing him up against the wall—

Poe moans into his mouth, swaying forward. Hux’s eyes fly open and he rears back, digging his knuckles into Poe’s chest to push him away.

“You—?”

“Saw that, yeah.” Poe’s eyes are _black_. Hux swallows, as wary of the naked desire on Poe’s face as he is terrified of his own desperate wanting.

“You know we can never—it will never be like that.” They’ll never be _together_ , not in Hux’s world or Poe’s.

“It doesn’t matter. Hux—what does it _fucking_ matter? We’re here.” Poe clutches at Hux’s shirt, the vulnerability dredged up by Hux’s dive into his memories raw on his skin. “This is all we have for now, this is all that we might ever have. Shouldn’t we make the most of it? Can’t we just fucking _live?_ Please?”

“You really don’t think they’re coming,” Hux says quietly.

“I don’t know.” Poe’s eyes are shining—wide, terrified. He takes a shaky breath, blinking hard.

Hux says nothing. He lets his hand trail up from Poe’s chest to his neck, stroking his thumb over the little scab where his blade had nicked open the skin. He lets his fingertips drag lightly through Poe’s stubble, savoring the scratchy feel of the stiff, dark hairs.

“You saw my memories,” Poe whispers, as Hux’s fingers trail along his jaw. Hux nods. “I don’t get any of that from you.”

“What do you mean?” Hux is very fixated on Poe’s lower lip. He stares at it, brushes his thumb over it, tracing the curve.

“I mean,” Poe pauses to kiss Hux’s thumb. “I just get, like…emotions. Surface thoughts. Just the things you’re thinking, right now, not any of the—context, I guess?”

“Good.” Hux leans forward and brushes his lips against Poe’s. “You don’t need it. They’re gruesome.” It gives Hux a massive sense of relief to know that Poe can’t see those things, that he does have a small bit of privacy after all.

“You must be good at keeping them locked away.”

“Hmm. Yes. Working with Snoke and Ren will do that.”

“I want to know more about you. What it was like working for them. How you got this.” Poe’s hand cups Hux’s upper arm, over the brand. Hux goes a little stiff in Poe’s arms, frowning, their faces too close for him to make out more than the shape of Poe’s lips.

“What you want—” Hux’s voice is a whisper. He isn’t looking into Poe’s thoughts now—it’s too much, too overwhelming, takes too much effort. He can’t shut Poe out completely but he can dial him back until he’s just a brush of warm static against Hux’s mind. But Hux has always been good at reading people, and he knows Poe well enough now to make an educated guess. “—is to find some sad, sorry reason for why I am the way I am.”

“Hux—“

“You want to know that you’re not kissing a monster.” Hux breathes this last into Poe’s lips, nudging them apart, taking the bottom one between his teeth, nipping gently. “That’s not such a bad thing.” Pressing another dangerously soft kiss to his lips. “But you won’t like what you find.” Poe yields to him, trembling, his breath a shaky thing skittering on Hux’s tongue. He clings to Hux’s shoulders.

“Hux,” he whispers, between ever-longer presses of their mouths together, bruising and close-lipped and feverish. “Hux.” Pulling Hux closer, like he’s afraid the other man will disappear, fade into the air around them, slide through his fingertips. “ _Hux.”_

Hux chuckles.

“I’m right here.” He slides a hand up through Poe’s curls, letting his fingers catch in the tangles and pull until Poe’s chin tips up. “I’m not going anywhere. Oh, you poor thing.” Hux kisses him again, diving into Poe’s mouth now, relishing the taste of him. He keeps a hand in Poe’s hair, turning Poe’s head whichever way he pleases, possessive and greedy and fierce. “My poor little pilot.”

Poe lets Hux handle him, making small desperate noises in the back of his throat. His emotions are loud again, pounding like a heartbeat—relief, excitement, desire, fear of losing this. But when Hux does something just right—pulls his hair just _so_ , licks into his mouth like _this_ —the fear fades away, replaced by a heat that threatens to crack them both apart.

“Come here,” Hux growls, pulling Poe along as he moves back against the wall of the cave. “Turn around. Like this.” He maneuvers Poe until the other man’s back his pressed to his chest, settling between his legs.

He only realizes how far he’s gone when Poe makes sure to settle in tight against his crotch. Hux surprises himself with a long moan at the delicious pressure, his hips snapping forward before he can stop himself. His hands trail over Poe’s stomach, stroking down and down—

And then he’s ripping at Poe’s clothes, rucking up the tunic and letting out a little groan as his hands finally slide over warm skin. He dives one hand down further, feels Poe’s stomach muscles tensing, hears him gasp. His feet scrabble in the dirt as he instinctively tries to chase the sensation, needing leverage to buck up into Hux’s hand.

Hux grabs his hair, fingers twisting cruelly in the tangled curls as he pulls Poe’s head down to his shoulder.

“Don’t you dare move,” he hisses. His other hand is working its way steadily into Poe’s trousers, brushing the head of his cock, gripping the shaft. Poe’s chest is heaving; he bites off a high-pitched moan as Hux sinks his teeth into the side of his neck, offered up so enticingly to him. Hux has the distant thought that he should perhaps restrain himself—not be quite so rough with Poe, who he really doesn’t know _that_ well—but the worry is eclipsed by Poe’s enthusiastic response to everything he does. It’s like they’ve done this a thousand times before, and Hux knows every step.

He releases the skin from his teeth, tongue darting out to lick soothingly over the mark. When he starts to move his hand, stroking Poe’s cock languidly, he writhes in Hux’s arms. He keeps opening his mouth, making little noises like he’s trying to speak, but then Hux tightens his grip, twists his hand, thumbs under the sensitive head, and Poe is lost to his ecstasy again. His head rolls on Hux’s shoulder and he gives himself up to long, uninhibited moans, that grow more fervent, coming faster, pitching higher—

And Hux needs to bring this to an end because it’s too good, he’s losing himself. He thinks horrible, silly things, like how he _loves_ this, wants it to last forever, loves the way Poe moves against him, tastes, feels, sounds. Poe is the best thing Hux has ever seen and he’s here, in Hux’s hands, offering himself up to someone he should hate, and it’s far more than Hux can handle.

“I am a monster.” Hux is panting along with Poe, his mouth wet on Poe’s neck, gripping his hair, his cock. “I am.” Poe is close now, trembling, his hips jerking up into Hux’s hand, holding on to Hux’s hips behind him. He’s grinding back against Hux, and Hux groans, approaching the edge of his own pleasure, addicted to the roll of Poe’s body against his. He doesn’t think about what he’s saying, simply strokes Poe faster, sprinting for the finish, desperate to feel him come apart. “I am, but I’ll be good—for you—I’ll be your good monster.”

With a sharp gasp and a cracked exclamation, Poe comes.

Hux is delirious with the ecstatic feeling, rutting against Poe, wrapping both arms around his chest and holding him close, closer, so tight against him—and it’s good, so _good_ —

“Hux,” Poe says, sounding wrecked, a little kitten noise working its way out of his throat when the heat building low in Hux’s belly finally bursts. Pleasure rolls through him, and he spasms against Poe, gasping, moaning, his mouth open against Poe’s neck, certain he’ll never feel this good again.

After they’ve both calmed down, Poe turns around in his arms and Hux lets him curl up against his chest. He strokes Poe’s hair, wrapping him up in a tight embrace, marveling at the fact that this pleases Poe even more than what they had just done. And at the fact that it can feel so good to please Poe—like another of the endless tests that have made up his life, but he’s good at it, knows all the answers, and the reward is greater than he could have ever imagined, and no one gets hurt.

And that last makes it feel so unbelievable, so unreal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* I didn't plan for more smut right away, but these two can't keep their hands off each other.


	14. Chapter 14

Poe wakes up first.

It’s actually late morning already; the sun shines brightly in through the cave mouth, a rich buttery yellow that coats the grey stones and hangs like a heavy curtain in the air. Poe blinks up into the light, and when his sleepy vision resolves his breath catches at the sight of Hux’s profile outlined in gold, motes of dust and snow suspended in the sun beam and silhouetting his features like a glowing crown.

Hux is asleep, his features as soft as the edges of his skin as they melt into the light. His lips are slightly parted, hair tousled and falling across his forehead. Poe’s hand is on his chest; it rises and falls in the slow, gentle rhythm of untroubled sleep. Hux is laying on his back, because that is the only position he can comfortably sleep in given the state of his splinted leg. Poe, therefore, is curled up to his side, one leg up and hooked over Hux’s good leg, laying in the cradle of Hux’s outflung arm.

It is the most intimate arrangement they’ve ever had. This is most certainly not just huddling for warmth, anymore. Poe nuzzles in to Hux’s shoulder, inhaling deeply and exhaling loudly, like a sigh. He’s shocked to realize that he’s…happy.

He could be happy, like this.

When Poe’s hand moves on Hux’s chest—Poe flexing his fingers, cramped after long hours clutching at the front of Hux’s tunic—Hux exhales and his head turns an inch towards Poe, changing the way the light falls across his sharp features, highlighting the shape of his jaw. His hair is a bit grimed by sweat and dirt, but every here and there the bright copper shines through, laying attractively against his pale, pink-toned skin.

Dusting the corners of his eyes and the high planes of his cheeks is a delicate spray of light brown freckles that Poe has never noticed before.

_Wow,_ Poe thinks. _He’s…beautiful._

He sees Hux’s lips twist into a tiny little smile, flashing briefly on his face before he manages to school his features. Poe grins.

“You heard that, huh?”

“Heard what?” Hux mumbles, without opening his eyes. “I’m asleep.”

Hux is being _playful._ Poe isn’t sure he can survive the sharp swell of his affection for the other man. For some reason, he’s proud of them both—perhaps for being able to craft this moment out of the multitudinous hardships and tragedies that have led them here, the two of them disparate parts to a machine that were never meant to fit together but somehow, unmistakably, do.

Poe indulges himself.

He reaches up to plant a kiss on Hux’s forehead, noticing when the little flicker-smile makes a brief reappearance. There’s a pleasant humming sensation emanating from Hux—a sense of newness, never having had this before, disbelief, not wanting this to stop. Poe doesn’t see why it should. He brushes a hand through the fall of Hux’s hair, wondering if two weeks is enough time for it to have grown noticeably longer. It’s hard to tell, when he is used to seeing it in holos slicked back or hiding under that sharp-winged little cap.

Then, it hits him. Two weeks.

Has it really been that long? Poe’s hand pauses, fingertips brushing Hux’s temple.

His own beard is coming in strong at this point. His hair has always grown fast, dark and coarse; when he trails his fingers down the line of Hux’s jaw, he finds a scratchy little stubble there, the color so light he could almost miss it.

Abruptly, that sense of warmth and contentment evaporates. Poe sits up, frowning, looking around the cave. It looks much the same as when they first found the place, only there is a dark stain where the fire has burnt for days and days on end, scorching the rock beneath it. An impressive cache of firewood is stacked against one wall, and Poe looks down at his hands. They’re coarse, roughened by wielding the small axe, and he thinks: _did I really do all that?_

Hux has made his mark on the cave, as well. After Poe started bringing back those little fox-like creatures, Hux had used some leftover branches to rig together a pyramid-shaped rack. He’d shown Poe how to slice the raw meat into thin strips against the grain, hanging them on the rack and moving it into the best position to catch the intermittent sunlight, building a small fire just beyond the base of it so the smoke wafted over the drying meat. Now along with fresh-cooked meat from Poe’s daily hunts, they have a store of jerky, too.

Hux had also been the one to come up with the right part of the shuttle to use as a pan to cook the mushrooms. Poe had suggested using the discarded bits of his stormtrooper disguise, which are currently piled in the back of the cave, awaiting some sort of use. The shoulder parts have a nice enough bell-like shape to hold the boiling water. But Hux had laughed and told him that the heat-resistant coating would poison them, and Poe had blushed at not having thought of that.

All in all, Poe thinks, they’ve done well for themselves. But every new venture they make into something that will pay off down the road means they’ve given up that much more hope of being rescued. The cave is starting to look lived-in, and that comes with such a bittersweet pang that Poe feels lost all over again. The data stick is cold in his pocket, lifeless, inert. He keeps it with him despite knowing that even if they were rescued today the information would certainly be out of date, no use to the Resistance.

Beside him, Hux sits up and lays a hand on Poe’s shoulder.

Poe breaks from his thoughts and lifts a hand to cover Hux’s, giving it a little squeeze.

“Breakfast?” He suggests, trying to sound bright. Hux nods, and Poe gets up to retrieve some of the jerky. He hands off a piece to Hux and then decides to spear a few of the mushrooms on a stick and char them over the flames. They get a nice crunchy texture that way, and it’s satisfying to have even the slightest variation in their bland diet.

“We’ll lose our teeth eventually, you know,” Hux says, words slightly muffled around the jerky. “Malnutrition. We almost certainly aren’t getting all the vitamins we need, unless those mushrooms are some sort of miracle food.”

“Well,” Poe smiles, “I think we’ve already seen a few miracles since we crashed, so what’s one more?”

Hux scoffs and rolls his eyes, clearly disagreeing with Poe’s definition of “miracle”.

As they eat, Poe’s eyes land on the small pile of hides that Hux has scraped clean and dried over the course of several days. Another two are laying in the sun outside the cave. He gestures to them, asking what they’re for, and with a curious little blush Hux looks down at his lap and shrugs.

“You need something warmer than that,” he says, indicating Poe’s now thoroughly soiled, torn in places, and terribly thin First Order tunic, which he’d worn to sneak aboard the _Steadfast_ a lifetime ago. “You’re the one going out into the wind every day. Another few days and you’ll be able to drape the furs over your shoulders, at least. You’ll find they’re quite warm.”

“Hugs.” Warmth swells in Poe’s chest and he finds himself blushing, too. “You were thinking about me?”

“You said it yourself.” Hux doesn’t look at him; he inspects the bit of jerky left in his hands, pulling at a stringy, dried tendon. “Without you I would starve. I’m only looking out for my own interests.”

Poe leans in and kisses him.

When they finish breakfast, he stands up and uses a loose stone to scrape twelve—he thinks that’s the right number—hashmarks into the cave wall. He senses Hux watching him, but the other man says nothing, and Poe’s mood dips as he finishes the grim task.

“I’m going out,” he says, picking up his blaster, threading the axe handle through his belt. Hux nods, but Poe can feel he’s gearing himself up to say something, and he waits.

Sometimes, this happens. It takes time for Hux to work himself up to saying what he needs to, the words slowly wending their way through the manifold layers of his mind. Poe can feel them taking shape, like a piece of molten metal dropping from one conveyor belt to the next, folded, super-heated, hammered out, flash-cooled: raw material made product. He simply waits. It is surprisingly easy to be patient with Hux.

“I need something to do,” Hux says finally. “You have your hunting and such, but I just sit here all day and I—I’m going mad. I feel so useless and I’m not—accustomed to that.”

Poe opens his mouth to protest, to remind Hux of everything he’s done for them, but Hux shakes his head, preempting the words that he can likely already hear in Poe’s mind. Unlike Hux, Poe tends to immediately say what he thinks, no processing required.

“You don’t need me. Not really. You know how I do everything—you could even skin these wretched things yourself, you’ve seen me do it enough times. I need to be useful, Poe.”

Poe blows out a long breath, swallowing the words _I do need you._

They’re true, but Hux won’t appreciate them. Not in his current mood.

Poe understands, though. He figures that if he wasn’t occupied with hunting and gathering firewood during the day, he’d probably go crazy with boredom, too. Especially if he couldn’t walk. So it isn’t hard for him to sympathize with Hux, even without their connection to tell him exactly what Hux is feeling—but Poe is at a loss of what to do about it.

Part of him is a bit annoyed at this. He’s already the one keeping both of them alive; does he really have to be responsible for Hux’s mental health, too?

Hux releases an indignant little snort that makes Poe think he heard that. Any sense of annoyance evaporates into a general fondness that is becoming very familiar to him. It arises whenever Hux does—well, almost anything.

“Okay,” Poe laughs. “What can I do?” Hux wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t already have a solution in mind. And from the way Hux reddens a bit and continues dithering, debating whether or not to tell Poe what he wants, Poe figures it’s something labor-intensive on his part, and he’s excited at the thought of having a new challenge—one that might further endear himself to Hux.

“I have a few ideas,” Hux says at last, “Of things I could make, to improve our situation, using parts from the shuttle. It would require you to remember my instructions and make multiple trips to retrieve items, some of which may prove too damaged to be of use. It may all come to nothing.”

“I don’t care about that.” Poe squats in front of Hux, dipping his head to catch the other man’s gaze. “Tell me what you need. I’ll get it for you.”

Hux’s list is impressive, to say the least. Poe hadn’t expected Hux to have somehow memorized every individual part making up the specific model of their command shuttle, but that does appear to be the case. He and Poe have to go over the list three times before it’s determined that Poe simply can’t remember the entire thing, and with a fondly exasperated sigh Hux pares back the list to about half of what he’d originally requested.

When Poe has memorized this smaller list to Hux’s satisfaction, he heads out of the cave.

Hunting and gathering firewood can wait a day. Poe is more excited about this. It will likely take the whole day and he’ll be exhausted from hauling parts back to the cave, but—the look of hope, eagerness, and contentment on Hux’s face is well worth the effort.

When he is about halfway between the cave and the crash site, he hears it.

_Poe?_

The voice is small, hesitant, but unmistakably Hux. Poe pauses in his march to the shuttle, cocking one ear, as if that could possibly help him hear the voice inside his head.

_Yeah?_ This is the first time Hux has deliberately spoken to him like this, and Poe is going to pay attention.

_I’m just testing to see if we can still communicate like this when we’re not in sight of each other, or if there is a limit to how far apart we can be…you can hear me, though?_

_Yep! It’s a little soft but, you might just be trying to be quiet?_

_I am._ Poe feels Hux drawing away, the voice fading. _Interesting…_

He grins, and resumes walking.

Poe repeats the list again and again as the remains of the shuttle appear on the horizon, though he realizes that if he forgets anything he can reach out to Hux. He hadn’t thought that their connection would span such a distance, hadn’t even thought to test it, but of course Hux had. Hux, who has to have everything in neat categories, who has to know the strengths and weaknesses of every tool at his disposal—including Poe.

Poe steps over scattered bits of the wreckage and enters the shuttle through the gaping hole in the cracked hull. The shuttle had split like an egg on impact, leaving it broken and de-winged, but in many places surprisingly whole. Poe wonders for the first time why the _Steadfast’_ s cannons hadn’t obliterated them on impact. By all rights they should have been space dust, nothing left to crash—but he pushes the thought from his mind. Strange as it is, it’s their reality, and he doesn’t see much use in wondering about it. Feels it might be a bit ungrateful, in fact.

And so Poe gets to work, starting with the cockpit.

He opens up a compartment in front of the pilot’s seat and crawls underneath. Using the little tools that had come in the survival kit, he unscrews a circuitboard, popping it carefully from its casing and depositing it in the bin he’d brought with him. Hux had restricted the list to smaller components for now, acting like it was very merciful on his part not to ask Poe to haul back anything of substantial weight, and Poe had had to chuckle and thank him for that.

A few more pieces go into the bin, and then Poe scoots out from the console, making his way from the cockpit into the passenger compartment. He walks down a short hallway lined with jump seats. The effect is eerie; he feels like he’s truly enclosed in a First Order command shuttle until he reaches the part where a massive seam splits the hull, running in an arc from the floor on his left, up the wall, across the ceiling, and down the wall to his right. A beam of light slices across the black interior and dry snow drifts in through the crack, a thin layer of it coating the ground. He kneels and brushes it away, looking for the compartment in the floor Hux had described.

He’s almost surprised when he finds it, opens it to reveal a complex-looking mechanism that Hux had mentioned as having something to do with retracting the shuttle’s wings.

_I can’t believe you memorized all this stuff,_ Poe says, sending the thought out to Hux as he gets to work extracting the parts Hux needs. It takes a moment before Hux responds in an arch tone:

_Some of us hold ourselves to certain standards, Dameron._

Poe chuckles.

_And your standards for a general are memorizing command shuttle schematics?_

_I know everything about every component on my ship._

_That’s impossible._

_I have a very good memory._ Hux pauses, and his mental voice takes on a slightly more lighthearted tone. _And no personal life, as you’d call it._

_Ah. There it is._

Poe feels quite content like this. He likes having Hux in his head, having someone to chat with while he works. It almost feels like being back with the Resistance—that sense of belonging he’d felt whenever he was underneath the _Black One_ , working on the engines with BB-8, trading well-meaning little barbs that were so often veiled compliments, sidelong ways of telling each other that they cared.

The next few components are easy to find, and then Poe opens up the main engine compartment and drops down into darkness. He powers on the small torch that had come with their survival kit, sweeping it over the massive engine blocks, looking for the right section. After a few moments spent in fruitless search for what Hux had described, he frowns.

_It’s not here._

_Of course it is. Are you looking where I told you to look?_

_No,_ Poe thinks dryly. _I decided to look somewhere completely different, first. Yes, I’m looking where you told me! It’s still not here._

Hux gives the equivalent of a great mental sigh.

_Here,_ he thinks, _Let me see._

Poe’s vision stutters.

_Woah. What are you...?_

He blinks.

_Look to the left. A bit further. There._

_Hux, what the hell..._ Poe shakes his head, and the odd sensation resolves like the fizzing out of static into nothing. _Can you...see what I see, right now?_

_Yes._

_How did you know how to do that?_

A pause, and a small twinge of discomfort. Hux’s emotions are close now, as if he is right there with Poe.

_Snoke,_ Hux says, after a moment. _During the construction of Starkiller, when he wanted to see the base firsthand..._

Poe’s stomach drops.

_He did this to you? He...looked through your eyes?_

_Yes. Is it okay? Should I not...?_

Poe can feel Hux starting to pull back.

_No, no. It’s fine. It was weird at first but it doesn’t bother me._ Poe feels a little bit exposed, and if it were anyone but Hux he would indeed be incredibly uncomfortable with this. He supposes he can’t blame Hux for not respecting Poe’s mental boundaries when, evidently, he had been taught that his own meant nothing. _Let’s just find the part._

Hux directs him where to look—exactly where Poe had looked at first. Finally, Hux begrudgingly admits that he may have been wrong about this particular component of this exact shuttle model. Poe chuckles out loud.

_Don’t beat yourself up._

_Hmph._ He can sense Hux’s intense displeasure at this, and instead of words Poe just tries to send a wave of warmth and acceptance to him. For some reason, this is rather startling to Hux: Poe can feel him trying to make sense of it, thinking it’s rather inappropriate, but then deciding that Poe is just a strange creature who is going to do and feel strange things at times. But underneath all of that, Hux is—entirely despite himself—a bit pleased to receive affection, when he thinks he deserves admonishment instead.

Poe files away a little mental note to himself to praise Hux more, as much as possible, for things big and small, until it’s no longer a shock to him, until he believes he deserves it as much as Poe thinks he does.

Poe puts the torch between his teeth, and jumps to catch hold of the lip of the entrance he’d dropped through, hauling himself out of the engine compartment.

By the time he’s finished with the rest of the list, the bin is full of odds and ends. Hux, still riding along mentally with Poe, approves of the haul. A thought strikes Poe just as he’s about to leave the shuttle.

_You can see through my eyes,_ he thinks, choosing his words carefully. _Do you think you could, like...control me? Tell my body what to do?_

_I would never try._ The answer is almost too quick. Poe licks his lips.

_He could though, couldn’t he?_

Suddenly, Hux retreats from his mind. The change is so abrupt that Poe stumbles a bit, feeling a sharp sense of loss, like something was ripped away from him. Shaking slightly, he feels along the connection to make certain Hux is still there. And he is, just muted, dialed back and closed in on himself as much as possible. Poe sighs and rubs a hand through his hair.

Before making the trek back to the cave, Poe sits outside the shuttle and eats some jerky he’d brought with him. The wind is picking up, tugging at his hair and clothes, swirling up the ever-present snow that doesn’t feel so much like snow but like the driest sort of powder, like pulverized dust. Poe looks out over the horizon, thinking that this is it.

This is what he has.

He wonders if, perhaps in five years, or ten, a shuttle might pass by this moon, might pick up the old-old signal still radiating from their transmitter, the message gone stale with the years but still pinging out into space. Maybe whoever lands here, finds himself and Hux—weather-worn, thin and stringy as the dried meat they’ve survived on, jittery in the company of other people after so long with only each other—maybe they will know of the Resistance. Maybe Poe will get to see the wider galaxy again, maybe it will be changed beyond recognition, maybe it will all be the same.

For the first time, the thought doesn’t terrify him. There is a numb sort of acceptance settling in his chest, and it’s easy to turn his thoughts from these things outside of his control to what truly matters now: their next meal, taking care of Hux, nurturing this thing between them. Making sure they can survive, not questioning why they would try.

Surviving is enough. Being here with Hux—it’s _enough._

Poe stands, brushing his trousers, picks up the bin and strikes off for the cave.

His steps are sure, his pace is strong, his will resolves around this new sense of belonging, this determination to make do with what he has, because he has _so much._ He has food and shelter, he has a warm fire and a warm body to curl up to, he has Hux’s ferocity and his shy smiles, the heat of his mouth, his clever hands, his sharp wit. There’s more to learn, more to see, more to find out about each other. In another few months Hux’s leg will heal and he and Poe could even set off from this cave and see what else this little planetoid has to offer.

And if it’s nothing, they’ll still have each other.

When Poe makes it back to the cave he sets the bin aside and goes to Hux.

Hux is sitting up against the wall of the cave, staring into the fire and nudging it with a stick. One arm is crossed defensively over his chest, and his emotions are muted and tense. Poe sits beside him with no preamble. He takes Hux’s arms and wraps them around his middle, wraps his own arms around Hux’s shoulders and draws him tight against his chest. He kisses the top of his head, again and again, ignoring Hux’s questions—what’s gotten into him, what’s this all about, why is he slobbering into Hux’s hair.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Poe says, nuzzling his nose deep into Hux’s hair, holding him tight. Tears sting Poe’s eyes. “I’m really lucky, you know that?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Hux mutters, blushing fiercely and hiding it against Poe’s chest.

“I am. I get to hold you like this. I get to know you and talk to you and kiss you.”

“That’s not—“ Hux is flustered, casting about for words. “That’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Why is that stupid?” Poe dips his head, nuzzling his cheek against Hux’s forehead. “You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re hot—“

“ _Stop._ ” Hux’s voice is strained, enough that Poe does stop, though he doesn’t let Hux go.

“I’m not making fun of you,” Poe says quietly, after a long moment in which Hux does nothing other than clutch at his waist and wonder why he’d say such ridiculous things. “I’m serious. I like you, Hux.” He chuckles, and runs a hand through Hux’s hair, pushing it back from his face. “I’m going to teach you how to take a compliment, if it’s the last thing I do.”

Hux huffs, but he sits up a bit straighter. He leans back against Poe’s chest, letting his head fall back until their cheeks are pressed together. Their hands are piled on top of each other, resting on Hux’s stomach.

“You like the sound of your own voice too much,” he says, and Poe laughs outright.

“I think we have that in common, mister speech-maker.” Poe kisses the side of Hux’s neck. Hux hums, and slides his hand from on top of Poe’s, tracing along his arm until he find’s Poe’s hips, then starting to work towards the front of his trousers. Poe sighs, and catches Hux’s hand.

“I don’t need that now,” he whispers. He lifts the hand, kisses each knuckle, then folds it back over Hux’s stomach and holds it there. Hux’s surprise is sharp, almost a flash of anger at being denied—and then, slowly, like syrup seeping down the sides of a glass, it pools into a confused sort of happiness. Poe nods, closing his eyes as he buries his nose in the hair behind Hux’s ear. “That’s right. I like being with you, even if we don’t do that. I don’t need you for _that_ , I just need you.”

“Well, you have me,” Hux says drily. “I’m certainly not going anywhere.” And Poe’s laughter bubbles up in him, bursts out in a swell of rolling chuckles as he holds Hux tight against his chest, and Hux starts to laugh too. The snow falls outside, and the fire flickers in front of them, and it feels like everything falls into place.

*

The weather takes a turn for the worse later that evening. The wind begins to howl, the sky grows heavy and the snow falls fierce and uninhibited, sweeping across the mouth of the cave in harsh gales, starting to pile up at the entrance. Poe gets up and moves the shuttle panel, which had once been used to drag Hux’s broken body from the crash site and now acts as a makeshift door, keeping out the worst of the wind and snow. They build up the fire and cover themselves in blankets and furs and drift off in each other’s arms.

Hux doesn’t know what awakens him, at first.

He should just turn his head in to the warmth of Poe’s breath and go back to sleep. But a species of dread creeps into his breast. The fire sends harsh shadows flickering against the cave walls, and the wind sounds particularly mournful, like a harsh chorus of wailing souls. His skin begins to crawl, and for some reason he thinks that he cannot go back to sleep without checking—something. The fire, perhaps. Maybe the fire is about to burn out.

Hux sits up, careful not to disturb Poe, who is sleeping so soundly beside him. When he lifts his gaze, a scream jumps into his throat and freezes there.

A woman is sitting across from the fire, her hands folded in her lap, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Armitage,” she says.

_This is impossible,_ he thinks.

The woman is young. Her hair is stringy, a colorless sort of blonde that hangs just past her shoulders, brushing the top of her ragged dress. She is so thin that her collarbones jut out in sharp angles, her wrists are bony, and her cheeks stand out in high relief. Hux doesn’t recognize her. She sits calmly across the fire from him, her legs folded beneath her, giving off a sense of grace at odds with the harshness of everything else about her.

Hux blinks, again and again, waiting for her to disappear.

“Armitage,” she says again, cocking her head, her gaze turning sad. Her lips are oddly full, and when they pull down at the corners something deep within Hux begins to ache. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“You can’t be here.” His voice is a harsh, shaky whisper, as if he doesn’t want to wake Poe—except that he does, desperately, if he could only get his hand to move he would shake Poe’s shoulder until the other man wakes up and tells him if he’s finally gone mad.

“I miss you,” she says. She reaches her hand out and it passes unharmed through the flames, a delicate thing hovering palm-up, waiting for him. “I love you so, so much. My darling Armitage.”

Suddenly, Hux is assailed by the scent of herbs and yeast, the heat of open ovens in cold, drafty rooms, the sound of bare feet slapping on old wooden floors, the patter of rain on glass. He gasps, the breath punching out of him, leaving an aching hollow in his chest. His throat constricts and tears leap to his eyes as he slowly, shakily reaches out towards her outstretched hand, his voice a tortured croak as he asks, hardly daring to believe it:

“Mother?”

Their fingertips brush, and Hux feels the solidity of her, the warmth of her skin, his own deep-seated knowledge of his mother’s touch igniting like a chemical reaction through his nerves. When he blinks, thick tears course down his cheeks, and nothing exists for him but the sight of her—now smiling, but still so sad, just as she had always been.

“Armitage,” she whispers, and Hux feels the finality in her voice like a ricochet just before she takes her hand back and unfolds her legs and stands. He’s still reaching out to her when she walks, gliding over dirt and snow, and slips out of the mouth of the cave.

A single beat, breath caught in his lungs, burning like the fire licking at his fingertips.

Then Hux is shouting after her, levering himself up, ignoring the bright flash of pain in his leg as he staggers forward. Poe rockets up, hair a mess and blinking and confused, but Hux only has eyes for the entrance of the cave through which his mother— _his mother!_ —had disappeared. He has to go after her, she’s waiting for him, he has to touch her again, it’s the only thing that matters.

When Poe grabs his arm, attempting to haul him back, Hux doesn’t think.

His knife sings through the air, a bright arc of silver, and Poe roars in pain when it slashes open the back of his hand. Blood spatters on the cave floor, and Poe releases Hux, gripping the injured hand to his chest and swearing. Hux’s heart is beating fit to burst from his chest as he drops the knife and breaks into a shambling, lurching run.

“Wait!” He shouts out into the night ahead of him, frustrated to tears by his leg holding him back. The pain grows with every faltering step, and he stumbles, jarring his teeth as his shoulder catches against the cave wall. But a crazed determination fuels him, and he reaches the entrance, falling against the panel, scrabbling at it with clawed fingers as he pulls himself through and into the storm.

He looks wildly around, searching desperately for any sign of her.

The wind and snow whips at him, stinging his eyes, obscuring everything. But he sees movement off to the left, and immediately makes after it, shouting into the wind.

The figure was moving away from him but stops as he draws closer. At first Hux’s heart soars—she’s waiting for him, she _wants_ him, he’ll get to see her face again, hear her voice, maybe—maybe—but then he realizes that the closer he gets, the more the figure seems to shrink, until he finally draws within arm’s reach and he sees that the shape of his mother has been replaced by a child who comes up only to his waist.

Hux freezes, terror clawing up from his belly, squeezing the air from his lungs as the child turns around to face him.

“No,” he groans. “Maker, no.”

It’s Albrenn.

The boy looks at him, and Hux urges his legs to run, but they’re as still as if his feet have frozen to the ground.

Albrenn’s hair is dark, but there’s something even darker seeping from his hairline down his temples, crusting in his ear. He looks at Hux with wide, innocent eyes, and he’s skinny, too—they all had been, he remembers that now, remembers—remembers—

The boy opens his mouth, and Hux knows what he will say.

“You were my friend.” A swirl of snow passes between them and Albrenn flickers. “Armie, you were my friend.” The dark stain at his temple grows, drips to his shoulder, soaks into the thin fabric of his regulation sleepwear. He takes a step forward, reaching a hand out—but the next gust of wind sweeps him away. Hux is frozen, suspended in horror as he stares at the spot, waiting for the apparition to reappear, to condemn him. It never does.

Hux falls to his knees, covers his mouth with both hands, and screams.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very confident in this chapter. It might not be very good, but it is a bridge to something important next chapter.

Poe fumbles for the medical kit.

His hand burns against his chest. He can feel blood seeping from the gash in a steady stream—that damned knife is so sharp, it might have even cut to the bone.

“ _Asshole_ ,” he mutters, even while he worries.

He splashes antiseptic on the wound—stars, Hux had used that knife to skin _game_ —and quickly wraps it in a few layers of bandages. It’s not enough, not even close—the bandages are soaked already—but he doesn’t know what Hux is doing out there, and Poe is terrified that the storm will sweep him away.

Poe jogs to the mouth of the cave, slips between the shuttle panel and rock, and looks wildly about.

“Hux?”

The words are torn from his mouth by the wind.

He can’t make out anything. He’s never tried to leave the cave before at the dead of night, and he’s shocked at the utter darkness that greets him. The only light comes from the glow of their fire behind him; it spills in a ruddy pool just beyond the mouth of the cave, but penetrates no further into the black. Poe cranes his head up, struck dumb for a moment by the sudden thought that Chulza—that bright behemoth of a gas giant which their little moon orbits—is somewhere above those impossibly dense clouds. Yavin had always shone so brightly on his homeworld, even in deepest night.

“Hux!” Poe shouts, putting all he can into the desperate cry. The air is shockingly cold, even without the knife-edge of the wind slicing at him, driving snow into his eyes. There’s no way, there’s just no way he’ll find him like this. Blood drips from his hand to the snow at his feet. Poe curses and squeezes his eyes shut, heart hammering in his chest.

_Hux?_

Reaching out to him, initiating this telepathic link, is like opening a floodgate.

Suddenly Hux’s thoughts slam into him, with a force that Poe has never felt from the other man before. He staggers back, gasping as his good hand flies to the side of his head, trying to cover his ears. Of course, that does nothing to stop the assault.

_SHE WAS HERE I SAW HER IT WAS HER OH STARS OH MAKER I CAN’T DO THIS I HAVE TO FIND HER PLEASE_

Hux’s words are accompanied by pure panic, the kind that jolts Poe’s heart into a frantic rhythm and makes his vision swim. Poe grits his teeth, wincing as the words seem to reverberate around his skull. The feeling is uncomfortably reminiscent of Kylo Ren’s interrogation, though entirely accidental on Hux’s part. He has no idea what Hux is talking about. Who was here? _How?_

_Hux, please—you’re really loud—I’m here, I’m coming for you, okay?_

_Poe—POE SHE WAS HERE HELP ME_

Poe’s breath skitters out in a rush.

_Which way did you go? Left or right, Hux?_

Poe figures it’s one or the other—it can’t be straight out from the cave because Hux needs the cliff face to prop himself up. The idiot, he’s probably undone whatever amount of healing his leg has been able to do so far.

_What? What? She was here! I saw her, I_ **_felt_ ** _her, Poe! You have to help me find her, I can’t walk anymore. Did she leave me because I was deficient? Is that what happened the first time? Why did she come back? She gave me another chance and I ruined it somehow. Can I convince her to stay? I want her, I miss her, I don’t understand._

Poe shakes his head at the stream of unfiltered thoughts.

_Hux! Left or right from the fucking cave!_

_I don’t—I don’t know—left? But Poe I saw her and now she’s gone and I need—I need her._

Poe shakes his head again. Hux’s thoughts are completely unguarded—he knows he is hearing words in Hux’s voice that the man himself would rather have died than speak aloud. The thought of what must have caused this shakes Poe, but he pushes it aside and runs, keeping his good hand trailing along the cliff face. If he takes even a few steps to the side he’s afraid he’ll become disoriented by the storm, and then both of them will be lost.

When he finally sees Hux, the man is huddled on the ground, tipped over on one side and holding himself up on his elbow. Snow has already begun to cover his dark coat.

_What are you doing?_ Poe’s anger flares. He bites back a growl as he kneels beside Hux. _Are you trying to kill yourself? I won’t let you, asshole!_

_I’m not, I’m just, I’m waiting. My leg._

_You’re not making sense._ When Poe touches Hux’s face, it’s like ice. _Let’s go._

One-handed, he hauls Hux up. Hux is too slow to respond; he clutches at Poe but goes down again, and when they try a second time to get Hux’s legs under him he tenses and curls up around the pain. Poe grits his teeth and does what he has always done when faced with an impossible task—somehow, make it work. Eyes on the target, hands on the controls, push all doubt and pain aside and just _go._

Eventually they get Hux’s arm around Poe’s shoulders, and Poe drags him out of the storm, murmuring encouragements aloud and telepathically when he can feel Hux’s resolve flagging. Hux wants to lay down and feel nothing, and Poe wants to tell him that that’s the same as dying. To remind him that he made a promise to keep fighting, that Poe won’t let him take it back.

The firelight beckons them with promised warmth, and finally they slip past the shuttle panel. The wind dies down to a dull roar and Poe blinks, shaking the snow from his lashes.

“C’mon, c’mon.” Hux tries to collapse at the mouth of the cave and Poe shakes his head, hauling him back up. “No, you can’t stay here, it’s too cold. The fire, Hux—“

Hux doesn’t hear him. Poe pauses, holding him up, studying his expression. His eyes flick between Hux’s, taking in their distant gaze, and he listens to the inner monologue rolling through Hux’s mind. There is something deadening to it, like the words are spreading through him and frying everything they touch, leaving a terrible numbness in their wake.

_She didn’t want me. She came and she saw me and she left because she didn’t like what she saw, because I don’t deserve her, because she saw what I did to him, because he told her? Does that make sense?_

Poe swallows. Dread coils in his stomach. Clearly, Hux had seen something—someone—but Poe doesn’t understand—he isn’t sick, or at least he wasn’t when they went to sleep together. Hux slips in his grip. Poe’s arms are shaking with exhaustion. He gets them moving again and deposits Hux next to the fire. He goes down like a sack of grain, and Poe beside him, back hitting the wall.

Wearily, he lifts his injured hand and lets it rest heavily in his lap. He’ll probably lose the hand, he thinks, as he feels warm blood trickling down the sides, curling in viscous streaks around his palm, dripping onto his trousers. He chances a glance aside at Hux, and is unsurprised to see his eyes still glazed over. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are an angry, raw red, and his quick, shallow breaths steam in the air around his cracked lips.

The only comfort Poe can take from all this is that slowly, Hux’s thoughts are starting to coalesce around more sound conclusions than the raving madness of a moment before.

_You were my friend. Did he say that? Did he say that? He didn’t say anything when he died. Did he? He’s dead. She’s dead, too? So not her, then. Not him, not her. Not really here. I’m a fool. Why? I felt her? I want her. Why him?_

Finally, Poe asks:

“Who is he? Hux? Who did you see?”

_I don’t want to think about him. Memories? Projections? The Force. This pfassking planet. Something wrong. How? I don’t remember her? Showing me what I want to see—why?—but I never want to see him again. Never had to before—here—it felt so real. She felt so real. Touched my hand. Smells. Warmth. Did she look like that, really?_

“Hugs,” Poe’s voice is scratchy, and he licks his lips, dry from the cold and wind. “I need you to—I just need you, right now. To be here, okay?”

_Why?_ Hux asks himself, still staring off into space. _He doesn’t need me, no one does._

“My hand hurts.” It’s the first thing Poe can think of. To his amazement, it works. Hux’s gaze snaps back to the present, and he looks Poe over with a grim set to his mouth. His eyes land on the bandaged hand and regret, guilt, concern, and worry roll off of him in waves. In contrast, his words are stern.

“You’ve done a poor job of that.” His voice is hoarse, like he’d been screaming. “Bring me the medpack.”

As Poe complies, Hux pushes his hair back from his face. His posture straightens, and when Poe places the medpack beside him he almost looks like himself again. He’s doing the best he can to push all thoughts beyond care of Poe’s hand to the back of his mind, and doing a surprisingly good job of it. Hux takes Poe’s injured hand in his own cold ones, and the sudden attention makes Poe flush.

It’s always the smallest things with Hux—a touch, a look, and suddenly Poe wants to turn himself inside out and swallow the other man whole. He wants Hux, wants to keep him at his side so he can always feel this weak-knee, somersault feeling. And Poe knows it’s madness to think that he doesn’t mind getting hurt as long as Hux is there to patch him up.

Hux unwraps the hasty bandage job and looks at the wound. It’s deep enough that the skin gapes open, and dark blood seeps up from it. Though, the blood is not quite as dark as Albrenn’s had been. Poe blinks.

He doesn’t know who Albrenn is. That was Hux’s thought. This has happened before, but it is still strange to find Hux’s thoughts inside his head—not projected to him in words, but simply _there_ , as if they came from Poe instead. He wonders what thoughts of his Hux might have—not the ones he’s spoken intentionally, or those Hux has overheard, but those that apparently run through some level of subconscious accessible to each other. Poe isn’t bothered by it; in fact, he wants Hux to know everything. He’s desperate to share the things that keep him up at night—the bombing run, losing the transports over Crait—with the only man he knows who could possibly look at it without judgment.

He mulls this over as Hux mops up the excess blood and splashes antiseptic on the wound. (Poe had already done that, and his hand is stained to prove it, but apparently Hux doesn’t trust him to have done even that much correctly.) There is a small tube of some sort of adhesive that Hux uses to pinch the skin together—Poe wincing and trying not to jerk his hand away at the pain—and then he applies butterfly closures to finish sealing the wound.

“That should do it,” he murmurs to himself. He doesn’t seem to know what to do next; he strokes Poe’s knuckles absentmindedly, and when Poe looks up he sees that Hux’s gaze is distant again.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Poe’s voice is quiet. He realizes he is afraid of the answer. Hux’s composure is brittle, cracking at the edges, darkness seeping through.

“I don’t know myself.” Hux laughs, and it pitches an octave too high, ends in a hiccup. “I saw—I thought I saw someone.” He swallows; Poe hears the click in his throat. “They spoke to me. I chased after them when they left. I’m going mad.” Still petting Poe’s hand, the fingers where he isn’t hurt, like the repetitive motion is the only thing holding him together.

“They must have been important to you.” Poe doesn’t think Hux is going mad. He has some theories about what might be going on and he knows Hux shares one of them, but it all somehow feels less important than knowing what person in the galaxy could make Hux so desperate for them that he’d fling himself out into a storm. That he’d slice open Poe’s hand for trying to stop him from reaching them.

Hux hesitates before nodding. Then he falls silent.

Poe can tell he won’t get anything out of Hux right now. Hux leans against the wall, still holding Poe’s hand, and Poe can hear him listening to the crackle of the fire. He can tell where Hux’s attention is fixed, can feel what Hux is feeling on his skin. Cold, drying sweat, the comfortless burning heat of the flames. Poe sits with him in silence for a while. He’s content, at least, to monitor Hux’s emotions—the ramping-down of hysteria into fear, to a numb sort of dread, and finally to something so muted even Poe has trouble picking it up. His eyelids grow heavy, and he cracks a yawn.

“Are you going to sleep?” He asks because he knows the answer.

“No.” Hux lifts a hand to briefly touch the tips of his fingers to his temple. Then he situates himself with his back against the wall, facing the fire with his legs stretched out in front of him.

Poe doesn’t know whose idea it is. The thought is simply there, to lay with his head in Hux’s lap, looking up at the other man. Hux’s hand goes to his hair, and Poe lets his eyes fall shut as Hux starts playing with his curls. Poe rests his bandaged hand on his chest and threads the other beneath Hux’s leg, gripping his calf. Hux makes a little sound, like he hadn’t expected that, like it’s somehow too intimate. But he doesn’t mind it, not really. He wonders why Poe wants to be near him like this, if he would still want to touch him if he knew.

“Hux,” Poe breathes out.

“I did this.” Hux is cupping Poe’s injured hand in his own, as gently as if it were a bird with broken wings. Poe notices that he doesn’t say he’s sorry, even though his grave expression combined with the sharp pang of guilt Poe can feel from him amounts to as much. Maybe Hux has never apologized to anyone before.

Hux’s hand keeps stroking through Poe’s hair. It’s just enough to keep him from falling asleep, but Poe doesn’t mind. He closes his eyes, turns his head until his nose his pressed against Hux’s leg. Every now and then Hux will twitch, fingers going stiff against Poe’s scalp. Poe can’t tell if he’s seeing things, afraid of seeing things, or simply assailed by broken bits of memories he has failed to keep at bay.

“You should try talking about it,” Poe murmurs at last. He hasn’t taken his own advice recently—talking probably would have helped, after everything that happened before Crait, but he couldn’t make himself face his fellow Resistance members when he felt so strongly that he’d failed them.

But back when he was a teenager, talking had helped when the pent-up aggression left over from his mother’s death had threatened to spill out. Poe remembers how valuable it was to feel like he had a few people he could turn to, who wouldn’t judge him for what he felt, who could help him untangle his own thoughts. He wonders if Hux has ever had anyone like that before.

Hux doesn’t answer right away, and Poe cracks open an eye. Hux has drawn his lower lip between two teeth, worrying at the flesh until it ignites a bright spark of pain. Then he sighs, looking out across the cave, hand going back to the more gentle strokes through Poe’s curls.

“I can’t. I’ve already tried.” His nose wrinkles. “You asked me about—my father. I couldn’t put together a coherent sentence. I sounded like an imbecile.”

“You sounded like you’ve been traumatized.”

Hux rears back, going tense all over, and Poe pats his leg.

“Hear me out, okay? It’s not your fault and you’re plenty strong, so don’t go thinking that I’m calling you weak.” Poe knows Hux well enough by now that he doesn’t even have to skim his thoughts to know that will be there—the ever-present fear of displaying weakness. “But it’s kind of a classic sign. Memories formed under trauma can be…confused. Muddled. Difficult to access.”

Poe isn’t even sure where he first learned about this; maybe from his father, maybe from the New Republic Naval Academy safety courses. He’d spent most of those seminars staring out the window, daydreaming of flying, but some of it must have stuck. He remembers, at least, some of the symptoms of trauma.

Hypervigilance. Nightmares. Anger outbursts. Avoidance. Detachment. If anyone is a classic case, it’s Hux.

Hux is silent, working this over, and Poe scoots just a bit so that when he turns his head his face is pressed right into Hux’s belly. It brings Hux out of the spiral of his thoughts with a little huff, and a single-worded thought: _incorrigible._ Poe smiles.

“You could try showing me, you know. Instead of talking about it. You could show me the way I showed you all that stuff about—“ his voice pitches, somber and still raw, “about Crait.”

A long pause, Hux’s hand heavy in Poe’s hair.

“Do you think that will help?” Hux is quiet, hardly daring to ask, embarrassed by the very notion of asking for something that would ease his mind. He still believes he should simply bear whatever misfortunes befall him, that asking for help is useless, weak, unnecessary. But Poe can feel his desperation—he doesn’t want to see whatever it is he saw again. Thinks he won’t be able to stand it, if they return.

“Hux.” Poe sits up, turning so that his back can rest against the wall, keeping his injured hand close to his chest. “I don’t know what it’s been like for you, but I have never once regretted talking through something that was bothering me with someone that I trust. I guess the question is, do you trust me?”

Hux is looking at him very intently, now, eyes colorless as the mirrored surface of a lake, reflecting the flames. His emotional read is slippery, but Poe gets the impression that he’s really _thinking_ about the question. Does he trust Poe?

For Poe that question is a gut feeling, a trigger-response—yes or no. He can tell that for Hux it’s a different animal entirely. He can _feel_ Hux slipping back through some thirty-odd years of experiences with people he decidedly did not trust, only to be proven right, again and again. Trust, for him, is turning his back on someone wielding a knife and expecting them not to plunge it into his flesh.

Poe’s heart plummets. He’s sorry for even asking. How is Hux supposed to trust him, of all people, when Poe has already proven himself so untrustworthy to the people he’d sworn loyalty to?

Holdo had trusted him, and Poe had repaid her by holding her at blaster-point.

“Hux.” Emotion clutches at his throat, and Poe looks down, shaking his head. “You don’t—“

“Yes.”

“Have to—what?” Poe blinks, looking up at Hux from beneath his eyebrows, head still tilted down in shame. Hux meets his gaze steadily.

“Yes. I trust you.”

“Oh.” Poe exhales, shakily. His lips twitch into a tentative smile. “Thank—thank you.”

There is something very solid about Hux at this moment. Poe feels it in the air like an embrace, holding him together, holding him up. It’s resolve. It’s the feeling of Hux committing himself to a course, despite fear, despite pain, despite the urge to run and hide. It’s in his posture, the way he lifts his shoulders, sets them back, tilts his chin up, a single unbroken line from hip to shoulder to temple.

It’s courage.

“Let’s begin.” Hux cups Poe’s jaw with a strong, unwavering grip, bringing him close enough that their foreheads brush. Poe lets out a breath, lifts a hand to grip Hux’s shoulder, steadying himself against the giddy feeling bubbling up inside of him. Someone trusts him—Hux trusts him! Hux doesn’t trust anyone but he trusts _Poe_ and that’s—

“Quiet.” Hux bumps his nose against Poe’s. “I need to concentrate. You’re thinking too loudly.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Poe smiles. “Hold on, though, I just need to do one thing first.”

He tilts his head and surprises Hux with a kiss.

“Okay.” Poe draws back just far enough to look Hux in the eyes. “I’m ready when you are.”

*

Nothing happens.

“You need to let me in,” Poe says, as gently as he can. He strokes his thumb up and down the side of Hux’s neck. “I can’t force my way in. Or at least, I won’t.”

“I don’t know how,” Hux mutters. His face is pinched, annoyed that he can’t do this thing that Poe had done almost without thinking.

“You have to…want me there, I guess.” Poe doesn’t know quite how to explain it; it had been so easy for him, when he’d shown his memories to Hux. He just remembers that ache in his chest that he gets sometimes when he wants so terribly for someone to understand him; when he feels like there’s this gulf between himself and everyone else, and he wants to cry from it, like a very small child who should not be left alone. He supposes that maybe that child doesn’t exist in Hux. Maybe it’s really Poe who is so broken that he’d willingly open up the most vulnerable parts of himself to anyone who asked to see them.

Hux makes a noncommittal sound and then falls silent, eyes shut tight. For a long moment nothing happens and Poe thinks this will end in failure. He’ll just have to find some other way to connect with Hux, to discover the things about him that Poe is aching to know and that he thinks Hux, too, wants to show to someone.

Then, suddenly, Poe feels himself tipping forward, and with a rushing sense of vertigo falls headlong into Hux’s memory.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this update took me a month. *hides* It was a hard chapter to write, and I've decided to include some specific (spoiler-y) warnings in the end notes, even though I don't think anything here surpasses the tags I've had on the whole work. Just in case.

“Ugh!”

Poe slams onto the floor. It knocks the wind out of his chest, as if he’s fallen from a not-insignificant height. His chin catches against the cold durasteel, jarring his teeth.

As he pushes himself up onto hands and knees he takes stock of himself. He’s surprised to find that he’s not as disoriented as he would have thought, given what seems to have occurred. This is certainly unexpected and a far stride beyond what Poe had done, in showing Hux his memories in a kaleidoscope of images strung between their connected minds. The cave is gone; he is somewhere else entirely. This place is still cold, but in a different way, and the lack of any wind at all makes Poe feel like he should breathe shallowly lest he use up all the oxygen in this suddenly enclosed space.

His first instinct, before even lifting his head to get a proper look at his surroundings, is to reach out to Hux.

_Hux? Are you there?_

_Poe!_ Hux’s voice echoes strangely in Poe’s mind; he sounds both distraught and relieved. _I don’t know how to end it, I didn’t mean to—you have to go, you have to get out of there._

_Easy, Hugs._ Poe shakes his head slowly, blinking, flexing his fingers against the floor. _I’m fine. I don’t think I’m in danger here._

_Yes, you are._ If Poe shifts the focus of his thoughts, he can feel his hands gripping Hux back in the cave. Hux is trying to suppress rolling shivers of dread, struggling to think coherently through what would be mind-numbing terror to Poe. Hux can see everything Poe sees, in the way he had when Poe had gone to retrieve parts from the shuttle. _We all were._

Poe doesn’t answer that. He stands, and takes his first look at this—whatever it is. Projection aided by the Force. A reconstruction of Hux’s memory.

It’s difficult for Poe to tell the dimensions of the room he’s in. It could be that the far end opens up into a corridor, but it all seems to go fuzzy too quickly, falling into an unnatural sort of shadow. He wonders if that’s a limitation of Hux’s memory, and decides that anything beyond his immediate surroundings isn’t important to the thing Hux is trying to show him. Poe turns slowly, taking it all in, while Hux has retreated to a quiet, shivering presence in the back of his mind.

He can tell immediately that he is in the bowels of a ship. There’s an insistent sort of mechanical hum that is generated somewhere far from here, deep and abiding, in a way that makes it seem like the floor should be vibrating under Poe’s feet though everything is, in fact, awfully still. This sense of movement comes from the walls, too, as if Poe can feel the ship sliding through space, only a thin layer of durasteel separating him from vacuum.

There are exposed pipes running along the walls that are rusted at the joints, and grime clings to the rivets at their base. The lighting overhead is harsh and minimalist, too yellow, thrown at haphazard angles that cast jagged shadows cutting up the room. He feels like he should be able to hear water dripping, though it’s just his imagination.

_Where…?_

His first guess would be some kind of old junk freighter, though it feels bigger than that.

_You should not be seeing this._ Hux doesn’t say the word ‘classified’, but Poe feels it rolling through him, the instinct to conceal as much as possible, meting out information like the withholding is its own type of weapon. Poe resists the urge to roll his eyes.

_So this is a First Order ship after all? Doesn’t look like it._

Poe had been on a Star Destroyer as little as half a month ago. This is no bridge or hallway to a hangar, smoothly-lit and gleaming. This is a place not meant to be walked by officers, or even stormtroopers. Their eyes would strain from too many hours working under this light, their lungs clogged by the dampness in the air. There is an inefficiency to this place that barely even speaks of the First Order. It’s a place that is ignored, shoved-aside. Abandoned.

Or, not quite.

There are shadows moving along the walls at the far end of the room. Their footsteps echo around him, and Hux’s presence in his mind freezes. Poe’s heart rate starts to pick up even before the shadows grow closer. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he blinks in surprise as the shadows coalesce into a group of a dozen-odd children, marching ahead of a taller figure still veiled in shadow.

They are the most stoic-faced group of kids Poe has ever seen. He isn’t great at guessing ages, but he thinks they look no older than ten at the most. They wear identical grey uniforms, unmistakably Imperial, and march ahead of the man with their arms still at their sides and their shining black boots striking the durasteel with an eerie synchronicity. Poe is struck by the mental image of a centipede, many sharp little legs encased in a gleaming black carapace pulling its sleek body smoothly along the floor. He shivers. He isn’t afraid of them spotting him; somehow, he knows before it happens that their gaze will pass right through him, so he presses himself against the wall as they come into the middle of the room and form a circle, falling into place as precisely as if there had been a little ‘x’ stamped into the floor where each was meant to stand.

The man is hanging back somewhat, his features still indistinct. Though Poe feels a cloying sense of dread forming low in his gut, he swallows it down and tries to be the calm observer that he thinks Hux needs right now. He passes his gaze over the children again, noting that although their skin and hair colors vary across the entire human spectrum they _are_ all human, and despite the discipline that has undoubtedly been drilled into them there is an air of desperation clinging to them all. They don’t look to the man—they keep their gaze level, impassive, looking into the middle distance—parade rest—but Poe feels their energy drawn towards him, like he’s the only source of air in the room, like it could be cut off at any moment.

He looks for Hux.

When he sees the boy—looking just like he had in that dream, when he’d called out and begged his father not to leave him behind—the first thing Poe notices is not that he’s smaller than the rest, or that his hair is uniquely orange, a spot of bright color against a washed-out world. It’s that he’s trying desperately to hide these things with his ramrod-straight posture. His small fists are clenched at his sides, his chin lifted a touch too high, expression teeming with the sort of brittle anger that could only cover fear.

Poe feels like his heart is being squeezed by at least three different fists. He wants to reach out and pull this small Hux from the circle, hold him against his chest and absorb the impact of whatever terrible thing is about to happen with his own body, like the shields of the _Raddus_ absorbing all that cannon fire during the long slow chase above Crait. Because something terrible _is_ going to happen—Poe can feel it in the air, in his bones, in the scent of animal desperation and lingering dread hanging over the gathered children. He wants to spirit this pocket-sized Hux away from here, maybe even literally concealing him in his pocket. But even now the boy carries a knife hidden in his sleeve, and he’d surely slip it between Poe’s ribs if he tried such a thing.

_Don’t trust this_ , Hux is saying to him in his head, urgent and suspicious and holding back a snarling sort of fury at seeing himself as a child. _If this is my memory it should be from my point of view, yes? How are you seeing me right now when I never saw myself? This is trickery._

_But this really happened._ Poe knows it’s true even before Hux grudgingly affirms it. _Maybe the Force is helping you remember, or helping you show it to me._

_The Force doesn’t help me!_

Hux’s anger is like a hot lance against Poe’s skull, but his presence quails into a silent, small, shivering thing when the man steps forward.

It should seem ridiculous, this adult presiding over a flock of children who look up at him as seriously as if they are a battalion of battle-hardened soldiers, and he looking down at them with his hands clasped behind his back and his nose twitching faintly, pulling his mouth into the barest hint of a sneer. He is uniformed as well, of course, rank stripes on the jacket and medals pinned to the lapel. A command cap conceals all but a few strands of hair as red as the boy’s, their matching hues seeming to draw an unbreakable line between them—a connection that they both resent. Poe isn’t surprised to realize that this is Hux’s father. He supposes he came here knowing that this would involve him, somehow.

Far from being ridiculous, something deadly sharpens in the air around them as Brendol steps into the circle, sweeping his gaze slowly over the children. Poe realizes, as Brendol’s eyes pass over the child version of Hux, that Hux had always felt like his father’s gaze was both dismissive and scouring. Somehow, without giving the impression that Hux was anything worth looking at, he’d felt pinned by that gaze, and Poe can see now that it’s true, a particular quality of Brendol’s that makes Poe’s hackles go up, sets his teeth on edge. Some people are born with the ability to make others feel small. Brendol is one of them.

When the silence has become an oppressive thing he finally addresses the gathered children in a low, gravelly voice, his accent so like Hux’s that Poe has to suppress a shiver.

“I’ll keep this brief.” His gaze darts back and forth and a muscle beneath his left eye jumps. “You all know why you are here. It is time for one of you to prove that you belong to this elite group that will one day rule the new Order.”

_He seems nervous,_ Poe says, not certain if Hux is listening to him. It feels important to point this out, because it’s something that is only obvious here, in this odd form of hindsight where an adult version of Hux can look on through Poe’s outsider’s gaze. Hux never saw it as a child. Brendol had been larger than life, like an emperor in his own right, ruling his small kingdom with an iron fist.

_This is a transitional period._ The Hux in Poe’s head sounds relieved to be able to offer up these facts, as they feel somehow remote from the situation at hand even as they shape it. At least, Hux thinks, he’s not being asked to reflect on how he feels to see his father again, and himself so small before him. _He lost his planetside Academy. We’re in the Unknown Regions now. We lost at Jakku, two—three?—years ago. The Empire is gone. Something new is taking shape.He’s trying to secure his place. Consolidating power._ Brendol turns their way, and though he looks straight through them Hux flares up defiantly, hot and angry, suppressing a deeper vein of fear. _Poe!_

_Hux?_ Poe tries to swallow down a sudden wave of panic. _What’s about to happen? Hux?_

Brendol is speaking again, saying something about the future of the glorious new Order and the importance of those who will one day lead it, but Poe is having a hard time concentrating on it through the rising sense of dread. He tries reaching Hux multiple times, receives nothing but silence. He realizes his hands are shaking and he clenches them into fists at his sides.

Brendol finishes his little speech—and part of Poe still objects that this is _ridiculous_ , he’s speaking to _children_ —and steps back. The circle closes behind him, then widens as the children obey a wordless command to spread out until there is ample space in the middle. Poe’s blood has frozen in his veins. He watches helplessly as Brendol turns towards his son, with nothing but the coldness of deep space in his eyes and in his voice as he calls him forward with a clipped, “Armitage.”

The boy snaps into action, shucking his uniform jacket and folding it before placing it on the floor outside the circle. His boots and socks join the little pile, and he pads barefoot into the middle of the ring. He wears an expression that is painful in its clear imitation of his father’s—sneering, hardened, but still soft around the edges in only the way a very young boy’s can be.

_Hux._ Poe pleads the real Hux to come back, to say something, to tell him that he doesn’t have to watch this after all. He has a sinking feeling in his gut, in his bones, and as his back hits the durasteel wall he realizes he’s been backing away, shaking his head.

“Albrenn.”

Poe’s eyes widen at the familiar name, just as a gasp tears itself from the young Armitage in the ring, whose mask suddenly slips as he whips around to lock eyes with his father.

He opens his mouth to say something, but the fire in Brendol’s eyes subdues him without a word.

Suddenly, things are happening very fast.

Albrenn is a dark-haired boy of an age with Hux, slightly taller and certainly more nervous as he steps into the ring as well. Barefoot, their thin shoulders like pale little moons in their regulation undershirts, arms bare and already pricked with goosebumps in the damp, chilly air of the ship, Armitage and Albrenn face each other.

Part of Poe’s mind is frozen, unwilling to face what the other part of him knows is coming. Violence hangs in the air, evident in the hungry eyes of the children forming the circle, in Brendol’s intent expression, in the way young Armitage clenching his shaking fists at his side. Poe wants to dart forward and scoop him out of the ring and whisk him far away from here, but he’s rooted to the spot. He can only watch as Armitage and Albrenn circle each other, arms spread for balance.

Armitage lunges.

A cry tears itself from his throat, high-pitched with youth and terror. He brings up a tiny fist, clenched tight like a ball of durasteel, and Poe winces as it connects with Albrenn’s cheek.

Albrenn ducks, dodges another blow. Sends a kick towards Armitage’s stomach; Armitage grabs his foot and flings him to the ground, but Albrenn is back on his feet in a flash, and Poe’s stomach is twisted up with the horrible realization that these children are already expert fighters.

The room fills with their cries and grunts of effort, smacks of flesh and dull thuds as they go to the floor, again and again, each time whipping back to face their opponent with that same spring-loaded energy Poe had seen in Hux whenever he’d drawn his knife.

The fight goes on for several interminable minutes. Poe can see the impatience of the other children and the Commandant looming over them all. Sweat pours from Albrenn and Armitage, darkening their hair. Armitage’s upper lip is split open, blood smeared across his chin.

Then, finally, Albrenn goes down, and doesn’t get back up.

Armitage is panting, shaking with exhaustion. He stares at Albrenn, who Poe can’t see on the floor, his body blocked by the ring of children, and doesn’t move.

“Finish it.”

Brendol’s voice is cold, measured.

Armitage winces. Turns his head slightly to talk over his shoulder, back still to Brendol, eyes lowered in deference.

“Father—“

Brendol snaps a hand out and hauls Armitage around, towering over him.

“You are on thin ice.” He bites off each word, face contorted into a mask of pure fury. “You are lucky I gave you this opportunity, boy, and you will do what all of your peers have done to earn your place with me. Prove you’re not the weakling you appear to be and finish the job.”

He throws Armitage away from him, and the boy falls to his knees.

Poe’s stomach heaves. He crosses his arms over his chest, breathing raggedly as he hears Armitage’s choked-off sobs. A _thud_ resounds off the dirty durasteel walls and Poe jumps. Another _thud._ Then a thin, warbling cry that turns into a scream of anger and pain as the next thud resounds with a wet, sickening crunch.

Poe turns abruptly from the circle, hand over his mouth. Everything blurs around him, sounds washing in and out, his ears ringing. It feels like the galaxy around him shifts, gathering up into a single point. There’s darkness and a horrible screech that goes beyond sound, running through him like teeth dragging against his bones—

He opens his eyes. He’s still there, still in Hux’s awful fucking memories, and he wants to leave, wants to go back to the cave or better yet go _home_. He thinks of his bedroom in his father’s house on Yavin IV, the golden sunlight through the windows at the height of summer and his dad’s booming laughter and crickets in the tall, itchy grass outside. He holds on to the memory as long as he can, and when he no longer feels like being sick or falling to his knees he forces himself upright and turns around.

Brendol’s hands are on Armitage again and Poe feels a flare of anger in his chest, his fingers twitching at his sides. He can see from here that Armitage is trembling with the effort to hold himself still as he endures the final portion of this macabre test.

The Commandant’s eyes are wide and riveted on his work, the knife steady in his hand. His other fist tightens into a crushing grip around Armitage’s slim arm, ignoring the boy’s muffled cries and focused on the symbol he is carving methodically into flesh. He seems like he’s pleased with the artistry of it: the clean lines welling up with bright red, the symbolism of the special mark in the middle.

Two ‘c’s, the larger swallowing up the smaller, holding it nestled in its belly like a sated beast. Commandant’s Cadets.

_You don’t want to know what I had to do to get that_ , Hux had once said. Poe never, ever, ever could have imagined it was something like this.

When the Commandant is finished, he wipes the end of the blade on Armitage’s shirt. Then he shoves the boy away, and Armitage catches himself on hands and knees, looking down at the floor and panting.

Everything but the boy and Poe flickers. The Commandant and the other children disappear—but Albrenn’s body remains. Armitage flinches away when he sees the pool of blood has blossomed to within inches of his right hand.

Poe can feel things drawing to a close. The walls are fading, Armitage’s panting breaths growing more distant. Although a moment ago all he’d wanted was for it all to stop, now he tightens his hands, jaw set in stubborn rejection of this. He can’t let it end like this. He came into Hux’s memories so that Hux wouldn’t be afraid to close his eyes and see Albrenn in that cave. If he leaves now, he’s worried that he’ll find Hux out of his mind with terror.

That might not be giving Hux enough credit, but Poe isn’t willing to take the chance. He can feel Hux with him, now—the real Hux, the one sitting with him in the cave, a cowering presence in his mind. Hux has come along with Poe and has just gone through all of this again, and Poe won’t be the person who simply drags Hux through his worst memories without giving him the tools to deal with them. He has to make Hux see this in a different way, somehow, not by changing the memory (could he do that? The thought is briefly terrifying) but by changing Hux’s interpretation of it.

The walls solidify around him as Poe takes a confident stride forward.

“Hu—Armitage.”

The child version of Hux cries out as he notices Poe’s presence for the first time. He falls back and then scrambles away, fear naked on his face along with the anger, exhaustion, and pain. Poe holds his hands out in front of him and squats down so he isn’t towering over the boy.

“It’s okay, Armitage. I won’t hurt you.”

“Who—who are you?” The boy is terrified but throws it out like a challenge, anger and fear mixing together into a storm of emotion.

“I’m someone you’re going to meet one day.”

“You’re a rebel.” The boy sneers at him, more confident in his anger now, feeding it with the pain from the bleeding wound on his arm, the horror of what he’d just done. “When I meet you, I’ll kill you!”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “I don’t really want to talk about that, if that’s okay.” He sits on the floor with his legs folded under him, and tilts his head toward Albrenn. The body is indistinct, a crumpled heap cast in shadow, but it’s not gone. It never will be. “I want to talk about him.”

“No.” Armitage shakes his head violently. He flickers, and for a second it’s Hux—his current age, yanked from Poe’s mind, overlaying the memory of the child he once was. Then he flickers again and Hux is a silent, quaking presence in Poe’s head, and Armitage is looking fearfully, tearfully up at him. “I can’t talk about him,” the boy says. “I don’t want to. It’s too much.”

“I know.” Poe blows out a breath, and when he speaks he feels confident that he’s addressing the real Hux as well as this child version of him, so small and full of anger and fear. When he speaks again his tone is flat, even curling with a bit of the dark humor that he tends to shield himself with. “That is the worst thing I have ever seen.”

Armitage recoils as if expecting a blow; Hux reels, and a brief flash of sensation tells Poe that back in reality, in that cave, Hux is trembling under his touch. He’s ready to be cast aside, now, as he’d always known Poe would do eventually, when Poe saw this unforgivable thing Hux has done.

If it weren’t so terrible, Poe would laugh. Hadn’t Poe come to him knowing about Starkiller? How could Hux think so little of Poe, that _this_ would be the thing he would run from?

Correction: it’s not that Hux thinks so little of Poe. It’s that Hux feels bad about this, and not about Starkiller. Poe isn’t ready to untangle all of that yet. He has to stay on task, and that task is simply making sure that when he leaves this place he goes back to a Hux that isn’t further traumatized by revisiting the worst thing that has ever happened to him.

“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” Poe says slowly, holding tenuously to his grip on the three interlocking realities: Armitage in front of him, Hux in his head, Hux in their cave on that moon. “Not because of what you did, but because of what you had to do. Don’t you see the difference? I do.”

“He was weak.” Armitage is crying, Poe realizes. Has been for a while. Tears mingle with the sweat, dirt, and blood on his face. Poe crawls forward, slowly, stopping every time Armitage flinches back, until their knees touch and Armitage looks up at him warily. “He was weak and that means he deserved it. He could have—“ Armitage’s voice breaks, and he hunches over, bringing his tiny killer’s fists up to his eyes.

Poe wraps his hands around the thin wrists, and draws Armitage against his chest. The boy collapses against him with the exhaustion of a much older person, and Poe strokes the top of his head.

“Your father is wrong about you,” he murmurs. “He’s wrong about everything.”

“You don’t know _anything_ ,” Armitage chokes out, hands twisting into the front of Poe’s shirt and pulling hard. The sobs come hard now, wracking his body, and he struggles to speak. “You’re so stupid.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay now, Armitage. You’re not bad, you’re just a kid. You were just a kid.” Poe has to blink back tears, wishing for the hundredth time that he could take Hux away from everything that had ever hurt him. “The people who were supposed to protect you failed. They were weak, not you.”

“Shut up! I hate you,” the boy cries, clinging to him. Poe nods, smoothing a hand over his back.

“I know.”

It breaks the spell.

Between one blink and the next, the ship is gone, and Poe is back in the cave. He holds not a trembling child but a furious Hux.

“You had no right to see all that!” Hux snarls and shoves Poe’s shoulders, hard enough to rock him back. Poe doesn’t say anything. He just comes forward again, like he had with Hux’s younger self, and puts his hands on Hux’s chest. Hux shoves him again. Poe comes back, again. Each time Hux shoves him away there’s a little less force behind it, and Poe keeps his hands on him a little longer. Until, finally, Hux’s head is bowed and Poe has him in his embrace, rocking him slightly, side to side as he makes shushing noises in his ear.

“I’m proud of you,” Poe murmurs. Hux scoffs and doesn’t say anything, burying his face in Poe’s shoulder. “I mean it, Hux. You opened up to me.” Poe laughs, low and hollow. “You _really_ opened up to me. How’d you do that?”

“I didn’t mean to. Obviously.” Hux straightens and swipes a finger under each eye, sniffs and then pushes his hair back into place. Well, if he’d had hair gel it would’ve stayed in place. Instead it falls over his eyes again and Poe smiles, reaching up to brush it aside.

“Do you know what really happened, after everything with—the boy?” Hux can’t say his name, and Poe doesn’t fault him for that. Poe shakes his head.

“My father threw a rag down at my feet and told me to clean myself up. I was to dispose of the body and return to my quarters in the middle levels of the ship without arousing suspicion of what we had done. Then I used my medical kit, which I was responsible for keeping supplied—also without alerting the wider society on the ship to what would have been seen as excessive requisitions of supplies, for an eight-year-old boy—and I patched myself up. If I hadn’t done it correctly my arm would have become infected. We were forbidden from seeking medical attention for most things done as part of the Commandant’s Cadets. Any one of us could have died from the brand alone, and it wouldn’t have mattered. My father had plenty of orphans to replace us with.”

Poe nods, tight-lipped. Hux’s gaze has gone a bit unfocused, but he rights himself with an imperious little sniff.

“None of that—that’s not the point. What I meant to say was, all of that feels very much less real to me now than the memory of you. Talking to me like I was a—a person, who was allowed to have feelings other than pride in what I had just done. So. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Poe has to blink back tears.

“I want to caution you, though.” Hux sits back and up, very much looking down his nose at Poe. “My life is not a sob story. I am— _was_ , a powerful man, despite what you might think given that peek into one of the moments in my life in which I found myself powerless. After that, I learned the importance of power, and I sought it relentlessly for the next twenty-five-odd years, and I was not—“ Hux clears his throat, seeming to have lost the train of thought. He pats Poe’s shoulder. “I’m trying to say that I’m not—a _good person_ , just because something terrible once happened to me. I know you want to believe that I am. I’m trying to protect you from future disappointment, is all.”

Poe is grinning by the end of it, shakes his head.

“Okay. Leaving aside the fact that you want to protect me from something and that that makes a sort of argument against your case—“ Hux makes a disagreeing noise and Poe shushes him, leaning in close again, “I get it, fine. You’re a no-good scoundrel, a tyrant, a very bad man. Whatever you want, Hugs.” He rests his head on Hux’s shoulder, smiling again when Hux lets him do this, even if it’s with an exasperated sigh.

“I get it,” Poe says again, softer this time, murmuring into Hux’s neck and squeezing his eyes shut. “I do, Hux. I really do. When you grow up in a horrible place, you have to do horrible things to survive. I’m _never_ going to blame you for that, okay? For surviving.”

Hux nods, but he thinks about Starkiller, and how that wasn’t really about survival. Poe shrugs. He’ll admit he doesn’t understand it but he thinks—just like this thing with Albrenn—that Hux isn’t telling him the whole truth, and maybe the two things are more similar than Hux wants him to believe. And after everything that had happened that night, when the sky starts to lighten just a fraction as their little cave spins inexorably towards dawn, all Poe can really think about is how warm and safe he feels wrapped up in Hux’s arms. He starts to drift off without meaning to, everything from the scent of Hux’s skin to the steady pulse of his heartbeat against Poe’s cheek lulling him into the sleep that has eluded them both since Hux cried out in terror at visions of the past.

If they try to come back, Poe hopes it’s when he’s there, awake and ready for them. Maybe he can beat them off with a stick.

Hux sees that in his mind and chuckles. The sound is the last thing Poe hears before he drops off to sleep. He dreams of flying in an X-wing big enough to hold the both of them, tearing laughter out of Hux by doing lazy loops through orange and purple clouds. BB-8 is beeping happily behind them, and Finn’s voice is on the radio, welcoming them both home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings (chapter spoilers):  
> -Scene depicting Hux as a child being forced to fight his friend in hand-to-hand combat, to the death  
> -The death/violence of the other child is not explicitly described but it is unavoidable, sounds are mentioned and it's not pretty  
> -Brendol is a dick  
> -Brendol gives Hux the brand on his arm mentioned several chapters ago, it might be a bit gruesome to imagine but the description is fairly succinct.
> 
> So, clearly, I am taking Hux’s backstory a bit into my own hands here. The Commandant’s Cadets were very much a thing, you can read about them on Wookieepedia, and they were required to kill another cadet as an initiation rite. But in canon, it was when Arkanis Academy still stood, and they were to kill the other cadet discretely and not be caught—that was part of the test.
> 
> My interpretation is that after Brendol loses his planetside Academy, things start to go badly for him, and his cruelty and desperation is reflected in these increasingly horrible rituals he demanded of ‘his’ cadets. Such as being forced to kill your friend in a public spectacle. Armitage is the only officer’s son present, by the way, considering that Brendol had a habit of picking up orphans from backwater planets, so it’s not like any of them would really be missed. He therefore had complete control over their fates, and this is the result.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing but fluff and smut and marital squabbling.

Hux hisses, finger jerking back a fraction from the hot end of the makeshift soldering iron. He gives his hand a little shake and then narrows his eyes, leaning in further and cursing the lack of any eyewear to help him see the fine details of the circuits. The day’s light is quickly fading, and Hux knows that Poe will be back soon. He wants this finished by then, and smiles a little to himself as he imagines the look on Poe’s face when he sees it.

The scavenged shuttle parts are laid out neatly around him, some of them dismantled down to their most basic components. Hux has been hard at work on this project since Poe left at sunrise. It’s quite a simple thing, really, and under ideal circumstances it would have taken Hux no more than thirty minutes or so. But ideal circumstances would have left him with complete mobility, consistent lighting, and better tools. So he is nonetheless pleased with his progress, especially as he finishes the last of the modifications to the motherboard and places it within the case. He exhales, flicks a switch, and lets out a defiant bark of laughter as the cave lights up.

Running lights from the shuttle’s ramp are strung in two wavering lines along the length of the cave walls at eye height. The bulbs buzz and flicker at first, then hold steady, bathing the cave in a warm glow that beats back the encroaching shadows of twilight. Hux smirks, tapping the case of the little cobbled-together generator with the end of a screwdriver, taking a moment to bask in his success. It feels like a victory, this stupid little thing he’s done, like the first real win he’s had since they crashed here, maybe even since Starkiller.

Hux shuts off the lights, conserving the power source for now. The lights are, of course, incredible efficient, and the generator can be powered by either solar panels (a dodgy prospect, considering this planet’s atmosphere) or turning a hand crank, which Hux finds rather hilarious. He can admit that it is at least a slight improvement on his general state of listless unemployment to sit in a cave turning a crank while waiting for Poe to come back.

He starts packing away his tools and reorganizing the shuttle parts. He’s suddenly hungry, realizing he hasn’t eaten all day, absorbed in his project, in the familiar and comforting feeling of inventing something from scratch and watching it come to life in his hands. He’s felt useful, content. He doesn’t think about the things he saw a few days ago, about the memory Poe had fallen into.

Poe’s boots crunch at the cave entrance and Hux looks up too quickly. He knows he does; knows that he has a ridiculous, unacceptable look of barely suppressed excitement on his face, because it feels so strange there. His heart beats wildly in his chest as Poe shakes out the half-melted snow from his curls, standing against the backdrop of twilight with his shoulders covered in the furs Hux had cleaned for him. He stands there for a beat, looking around the cave, and Hux wants to reach out for him and snap _come here, you horrible thing, get over here already._

Ah, but the lights. Poe is looking at them and then looking to Hux with a questioning quirk to his brow, and Hux reaches over and flicks on the generator.

The lights flare to life again, and Poe’s eyes open wide, mouth spreading into a boyish grin that makes Hux’s heart beat even faster. His brown eyes sparkle with the reflected light and he laughs, turning to look at Hux, finally dropping his bag and crossing over to where Hux is sitting against the cave wall with a few quick strides.

“Hugs!” Poe falls to his knees and takes Hux’s face between his hands and pulls him forward for a hard, bracing kiss. Hux is lightheaded, breathless as his hands come up to grasp Poe’s wrists, needing something to hold on to. The kiss starts out chaste and Poe almost pulls back to say something more, but Hux holds him there, leaning eagerly into the kiss and biting at his lower lip. Poe makes a muffled sound of appreciation and opens for him, his mouth warm and tasting faintly of the artificial flavoring that came with their survival pack’s dental hygiene kits, a sweet, warm spice. Hux runs his tongue along Poe’s and then can’t stop himself from nipping at him again, needing to take Poe between his teeth, aching to consume him.

Finally, they break away, both breathing hard. Poe tips his head forward and presses their foreheads together, stroking the side of Hux’s face.

“You did all this?” He whispers it, like the space between them is a sacred, fragile thing that will hold this secret. Hux shrugs, rolling his eyes, trying to command his heart to some semblance of order.

“It wasn’t hard.” Well, it was not a technically difficult task, but balancing on one good leg while hammering in the supports to hold up the string of lights had been a challenge. “I told you I needed something to occupy my time.”

Poe rocks back on his heels, grinning.

“So,” Hux says, when this has gone on too long, this moment where Poe and Hux simply look at each other like the sight alone is enough to sustain them, “will we be eating fresh meat tonight, or is it more of the jerky for us?” Hux tries to infuse the question with the disdain it deserves, but even he can tell it falls flat. Somehow, this has become enough for him—somehow, his silly little projects, and the suspense of whether or not Poe caught anything for dinner is enough, when before it had felt like nothing short of complete galactic domination would ever satisfy him.

“All yours, babe,” Poe says with a wink, dragging the bag to Hux’s side and depositing it with a heavy thump that spoke of several new carcasses to skin and roast. Hux pulls them out, along with another bundle of mushrooms, and gets to work preparing them while Poe builds the fire back up to its nighttime strength. With the lights overhead giving a more steady, widespread illumination than the fire ever had, the work goes quickly, and soon Hux and Poe are relaxing against each other, the day’s work complete, staring into the fire and listening to the wind.

Hux closes his eyes. Poe has picked up his hand and is playing with it, stroking the knuckles, moving each finger like he’s testing out the joints. Hux smiles. He can’t remember ever being touched like this. It’s silly, and purposeless, and wonderful.

He supposes Poe has had many lovers in his past (though _lovers_ is not what Hux would call the two of them—he has no idea what they are and shies away from the thought of putting a name to it). Without opening his eyes, Hux brushes his thoughts over Poe’s, the touch subtle now after they’ve both had a while to develop their control of this inexplicable connection between them. To Hux’s surprise, Poe isn’t thinking of the last person he must have touched like this. He’s thinking of a farm, on a warm planet, and what Hux would look like standing out in the field under the sun. He thinks about how Hux’s pale skin would require sunscreen. Maybe even a big, floppy hat.

Hux laughs, and opens his eyes.

Poe shoots a look up at him, eyes searching for a beat before one corner of his mouth turns up into a sideways grin.

“Spying on my thoughts, Hugs?”

“They’re very entertaining.”

Poe keeps playing with his hand, pressing his thumbs into the arch of Hux’s palm in a massaging motion.

“What was that place?”

“Home,” Poe says simply. He leans his head against Hux’s shoulder, letting out a long, wistful sigh. “I wish I could take you there. I wish I could see my dad again.”

“I don’t think he’d be very happy to see me,” Hux muses. “Unless…what did your father do?”

“Exactly what you’d imagine,” Poe chuckles. “He was an Alliance soldier.”

“The Rebel Alliance.”

“Yep.”

“Your father was a rebel, as are you, and yet you would defame his home by bringing me there?” Hux is more amused than anything.

“I think he’d like you,” Poe says quietly, after a long moment of silence.

“You’re delusional.” Hux says it fondly, bringing his free hand up to run it through Poe’s curls. This conversation is safe, because of course it will never happen. Poe does like his little fantasies and Hux is quite willing to indulge them. He knows that this is what keeps Poe sane, like Hux’s tinkering does for him. Hope. Imagining ideal futures. Optimism that they could somehow come to pass.

Poe jerks his head up, bucking Hux’s hand away, then lowers it again. Hux’s hand hovers over him for a beat, waiting to see if Poe will shy away again, but this time he submits to Hux’s attentions. Still, Poe’s feedback through their connection is prickly with annoyance.

“Do you really think it’s so strange that anyone might like you?” Poe grasps Hux’s hand in both of his, warming up the cold tips of his fingers. “ _I_ like you.”

“You poor thing.” Hux pets his head. “You don’t have a choice.”

_Hey. I want you to take a look at this._

Hux looks up from the hide he is scraping clean, his gaze going a bit distant as he listens to Poe. He can’t tell exactly how far away Poe is from the cave—his mental presence is as strong as ever. Hux is still intensely curious as to how far their bond can reach, if they could talk to each other across any amount of distance. But since he can’t possibly test that at the moment, he turns his attention to Poe’s request.

_…are you sure?_ Hux thinks it’s insane that Poe is inviting him back into his mind, though the temptation is rather great now that the idea has been put into his head.

_Yeah. What, you think I’m afraid of you?_ The echo of Poe’s scoff is like a caress against his cheek. _C’mon, I kinda like having you there. I don’t have to explain myself later if you can actually see through my eyes. That’s like, a dream!_

A dream. Hux rolls his eyes at Poe’s naivety. Maybe if he’s never had someone like Snoke in his head, it would seem that way. Poe is quite desperate for approval, Hux has noticed. Maybe all of these soft Republic people are. (As if he isn’t. As if everything he’s done his entire life wasn’t in service of proving himself useful to his superiors, as if he doesn’t _know_ that.) So, fine, Hux will take a look and say ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ and give him the pat on the head he so desperately craves.

Maybe it’s uncharitable, but Hux often thinks of Poe as desperate. He has that quality about him, like he’s constantly gripping the edge of something with the last of his strength. It may have something to do with his mother. Hux doesn’t know the details. There’s a ring that Poe wears on his person, on a chain around his neck. Hux can feel him reaching for it sometimes, checking that it’s still tucked beneath his shirt, against his chest. Hux has even felt envious of it before, wanting to be the small thing held jealously against the warm skin above Poe’s heart.

Poe is so determined to think of Hux as a good person. It’s another thing he’s desperate for, and it’s tied up in Poe’s expectations of himself, which are subsequently threaded through with the expectations of, oh, well, everyone Poe has ever met and held any sort of regard for. Surely, Poe tells himself, he wouldn’t be in—he wouldn’t be so fond of someone truly terrible, so Hux must not be so bad after all. There must be a good person hidden in there somewhere, and it’s all the more tragic that that person has been twisted by circumstances beyond their control into some painful contortion of muddled morality masquerading as outright evil. Poe has begun the process of disentangling action from essence, which is apparently a more complicated framework than he’s used to dealing with, and is perhaps even somewhat healing for him. Poe has done things he’s not proud of, but he still sees himself as a fundamentally good person. This gives Hux a sense of relief: in that, he’s right.

But this other, this constant rumination on the quality of Hux’s interior—it’s exhausting. Hux is tired of the way it makes him feel sorry for Poe, tired of suppressing the dull anger at the thought that even when Poe is in his head he’s not really _seeing_ Hux. It’s like he’s looking past him, at the ghost of a person who will never exist. Poe has an ever-lingering sense of excitement about him in regard to most things—life in general, Hux supposes, as baffling as that may be. And it applies to Hux as well. Poe’s attitude reminds Hux of an explorer poised on the precipice of a subterranean cavern. He’s holding on to one end of a length of rope, the other tossed into the darkness below, and he’s clicking on a headlamp, ready to repel down and discover more of Hux’s inaccurate assumptions about himself.

Hux never should have shown him that memory of Albrenn. It gave Poe the wrong idea entirely, though it had felt good—so surprisingly good to finally show it to someone, and even now Hux blushes to think of what a relief it is to be able to close his eyes and see Poe in the dank underbelly of that ship with him, like he really had been there.

Oh, fine, whatever. Let Poe think whatever he wants about Hux, Hux doesn’t care, as long as it keeps Poe beside him for that much longer.

_Hux?_

_Yes. I’m here._ Hux unfocuses, in the way he can’t really explain how he knows to do, and suddenly he sees Poe’s hands in front of him, grasping at the gnarled rocky face of a cliff. Hux feels the phantom burning of muscle as Poe pulls himself upward, breath leaving him in short, exhilarated huffs. It feels good for Poe to exert himself like this, and Hux has to suppress the bite of bitter envy. He misses being able to walk uninhibited. He used to burn off steam by running endless laps on the track of one of the _Finalizer_ ’s several exercise facilities. That will never happen again, for multiple reasons.

_Should you be rock-climbing?_ Hux experiences a mild surge of nausea when he realizes that Poe has actually gained some height. It seems like an unnecessary risk.

_I’ll be fine._ Poe brushes off concerns about his well-being with practiced ease. _I’ve done this before._

_Oh, well that makes me feel better._

Hux feels Poe’s chuckle like a pressure in his own chest.

_Alright, it’s here._

Poe hauls himself up onto a ledge. Hux is dizzy with vertigo for a moment as Poe turns towards the drop. He’s almost thrown out of Poe’s perspective; the cave wavers before him, a ghostly afterimage pasted over the landscape before Hux can take hold of himself, seating himself firmly within Poe’s point of view.

Hux hasn’t been at any great height for a long time. The last he can remember is looking out the viewports of a command shuttle heading down-planet. There is always a moment when the planet’s curves edge out the black of space and the realization grips him, like something beyond intellect and seated deep within his corporeal self, that he is no longer in space but instead very high above the planet’s surface. Poe isn’t actually too high up, and there is very little to see—the dark banks of clouds roll overhead, and the horizon is a wash of grey. Still, the quality of the wind is somehow different up here, and Hux relishes the feel of it on Poe’s skin.

_Glad you like the view._ Poe chuckles, still catching his breath from the climb. _That’s not what I wanted to show you, though. Here._ He turns towards the cliff and kneels down, and that is when Hux sees the crack in the rock. For some reason, a well of panic rises in him, as he wonders for the first time what else might occupy the many cracks and caves carved into the cliffs by the ever-driving wind.

_Careful!_

_It’s alright, Hugs. I’ve been here before. Look._

Poe puts his face right up to the hole, shielding his eyes with one cupped hand so that they adjust to the darkness. Hux holds his breath, waiting for something to jump out at Poe and maul his face, because that’s what the idiot deserves.

Poe blinks, and Hux finally sees a few shapes resolving in the dim light of the cramped space.

_Are those—_

_Aw, no,_ Poe thinks, crestfallen.

Inside are the small shapes of three of the creatures that Poe and Hux have been hunting. They’re obviously juveniles, and only one of them is moving.

_Yesterday the other two were alive._ Poe’s sorrow hits Hux like an unbidden wave, and for a terrible second Hux fears the pilot is actually going to cry. _I should’ve come back sooner. They’re just babies._

_I don’t understand._ The little creature is staring at Poe with dark eyes that look huge in its small head. The whole thing would fit curled up in Poe’s cupped palms. It starts shaking, making high-pitched little whimpers, curling its bushy tail tighter around the fuzzy grey body. Poe starts to reach for it. _What are you doing?_

_Well, I can’t just leave him here._

_It’s hardly enough for a mouthful._

_Hux! We’re not gonna eat him!_ Poe makes little cooing noises at the thing, and Hux is flummoxed.

_Why did you want me to see this? What do you plan to do with it? We’ve been eating the adults for weeks now!_

_Ugh._ Poe extracts the creature from its hole, leaving behind the bodies of its brethren and holding it close against his chest. _I knew you wouldn’t understand._

With that, Poe throws him neatly out of his mind.

Hux’s back hits the cave wall. He blinks, shakes his head, and tries not to be annoyed that Poe had accomplished that so neatly. Poe still doesn’t know how Hux does it, this looking-through-Poe’s-eyes trick, and Hux had felt rather smug about that. He frowns, and picks up the hide again, scraping savagely at it and imagining it’s the little creature Poe had, for some reason, been so helplessly fixated on.

When Poe walks into the cave not a half hour later, Hux’s head shoots up.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, “take another step into this cave if you still have that thing with you.”

Poe glares at Hux, and shifts his arms to reveal that yes, the thing is still curled up in the crook of his elbow. Poe’s cheeks are red from the wind, his hair tousled and his eyes very bright.

“I told you, it’s too small to eat.” Hux goes back to scraping the hide, putting his back into it, taking out his frustration in each stroke. “Best let it go and hope it survives to adulthood so you can shoot it.”

Poe snorts. Instead of the comeback Hux had expected, he doesn’t say anything at all. He simply strides further into the cave and sits down. A makeshift pot containing a broth boiled from mushrooms and bones is packed on all sides with snow to keep it as fresh as possible, and Poe sits beside it, dipping the end of his finger into it and bringing it to the little creature’s mouth.

Hux sighs.

“They appear to be mammals.” He wrinkles his nose as he looks at the hide in his hands, inspecting it for any bits of tissue he missed. “It probably needs some form of sustenance from its mother, which I presume is dead. It’s just going to die on you, Poe, and I don’t want to deal with what will certainly be a dramatic emotional response on your part.”

“I think he likes it!” Poe says brightly, ignoring Hux. “Can you heat some up?” Poe uses one hand to brush away the snow and bring the pot closer to Hux and the fire.

Hux looks at Poe, eyes narrowed. After a moment he puts aside the hide and begins to set up the tripod of branches that holds the pot above the flames.

“Only because I’d like some,” he snaps, when he can feel Poe’s smugness rolling off of him. “If there’s any left over after we’ve had our fill you can give it to your…pet.”

Wisely, Poe doesn’t say anything more.

Night falls. The fire flickers, pops and cracks. The string lights glow overhead. Hux stares into the fire, warming his hands over it, glancing every so often over at Poe. Poe’s head is bent, staring down at that thing in his arms, scratching it idly under the chin. Hux rolls his eyes, tamping down a ridiculous flare of jealousy.

“Are you going to name it, then?” He asks archly, when the silence becomes too much for him, irritation sharpening his voice.

“Of course.” Poe glances over at Hux before looking back down at the creature. “Just gotta think of a good one.”

Hux clenches his jaw. He hears a soft laugh from Poe but refuses to look at him.

“Why does this make you so mad?”

“Because it’s ridiculous. We’re in a survival situation and we do not need to waste our time and resources on…” He bristles, searching for appropriately caustic words. “Frivolous activities and…liabilities!”

“He’s tiny,” Poe says firmly, “he takes up barely any resources, certainly not any we can’t spare, and I like him.”

“Oh, and you think that’s enough to convince me?” Hux leans back from the fire, crossing his arms and staring challengingly at Poe. “You think I care what you like?”

“I think you do. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. You’re not in charge.”

Hux’s mouth hangs open.

“I—that’s—“ He presses his lips together, suppressing a growl of anger. “Do you really think you can keep that thing alive?”

“You’re pretty hung up on that, huh?” Poe glances back down at the creature, shifts his arms to hold it more securely, and then shuffles over to Hux. Hux bristles, lifting his shoulders and leaning away from Poe, but Poe just slings his other arm around Hux and yanks him to his side. “You’re worried about my feelings. That’s really sweet, Hugs.”

“I am not. You’re very annoying when you’re despondent. I don’t want to experience it any more than I have to.”

“Shhh. Just look at him.” Poe tilts his arm towards Hux, and with a roll of his eyes Hux looks down at the little beast. It has large ears, a dark grey muzzle, and very tiny paws. Hux can begrudgingly admit to himself that it bears a passing resemblance to something domesticable. “Don’t you have pets where you come from?”

“Well.” Hux sniffs. “It’s obviously not possible for the majority of citizens of the Order, though rank has its privileges. Of course I know about pets. I had a cat.”

“You—what?” Poe blinks at him. “You had a lothcat?”

“No, just a cat.” Poe gives him a blank look, and finally raises his shoulders in defeat. “Her name was Millicent.”

“I— _Hugs_.” Poe starts to laugh. He squeezes his eyes shut, tears forming at the corners as he shakes with laughter, jostling Hux in the process. Hux’s cheeks flare bright red and his lip twitches, eyebrows flat and strained.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Poe takes a moment to get himself under control, and Hux would be beyond himself with fury if it hadn’t felt remarkably nice to have Poe’s body pressed against his. “It’s just—Millicent. That’s, that’s a great name. Very _you._ What happened to her?”

“Oh, I imagine she’s living it up with Mitaka now. She always did like him more than me.”

“Mitaka is your friend, right?”

“Stars, no. He’s my subordinate.”

“Okay.” Poe brings his hand around to cup the side of Hux’s neck, coaxing him close enough that Poe can press a kiss to his cheek. “Well, this little guy can be our Millicent. Got any ideas for a name?”

Hux buries his nose in Poe’s hair, sick of looking at the helpless little beast.

“Raen,” he says quietly, the word almost muffled as Poe’s curls brush against his lips.

“Rain? Like, a rainy day?”

“No.” Hux spells it for him. He can feel Poe’s curiosity, like the whisper of a searching touch ghosting over him.

“I like it,” Poe says finally. “It’s a strong name. Does it mean anything?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not gonna tell me.”

“No.”

“Alright.” Poe laughs. “Come here.” He tangles his fingers in the hair at Hux’s nape, digging his knuckles into the back of Hux’s neck as he leans up for a kiss. Hux considers denying him for only the briefest moment before his body decides for him, giving in to Poe’s demanding touch. As their lips meet Hux can’t help but let out a low moan. He can’t believe his good luck, that this is always here waiting for him: the feel of Poe’s mouth, warm and soft and wet, Poe’s hands on his skin, lighting him up, holding him close. Nothing so good has ever offered itself up to Hux.

“You’re not mad at me anymore?” Poe murmurs. Hux barely registers the words. He cups Poe’s face with both hands, pressing his chest forward as he slides his tongue along Poe’s. He itches to rid himself of his coat, to plunge his hands under Poe’s shirt and explore every inch of his chest, imagines touching the soft skin beneath his navel.

“Yeah?” Poe’s voice is husky, their thoughts intertwining as the kiss deepens, grows desperate and searching, a heat building between them. “You want to do that?”

“Mm.” Hux grasps the collar of Poe’s jacket, then stills. He looks pointedly down at Poe’s arm, where the little beast—Raen—is still cradled in the crook of his elbow, sleeping soundly.

Poe gets up and makes a little nest by the fire, wrapping Raen in layers of fur and laying a hand on his back to make sure the heat of the fire isn’t too intense. Raen makes only a small huffing sound of complaint, nestling down contentedly when Poe lifts his hand away. Then Poe is back on Hux, his hands fisting in Hux’s hair as he dives his tongue into his mouth. Their back-and-forth is hypnotic; Hux could go on a very long time like this, kissing Poe, if it weren’t for the relentless heat building within him demanding more.

He clutches at Poe’s jacket, pulling him closer, but the angle is frustrating. Hux needs to be higher, needs to control this incredible energy in the form of a man. Poe is bright and wild and eager, kneeling over him, pushing hands into Hux’s hair, kissing him like he’s trying to steal his breath. But there’s a formlessness to it that must be contained, channeled. Hux growls and bites at Poe’s lower lip, frustrated at his limited mobility. If it weren’t for his leg—well, there were ways around that.

“Lie down.” He pushes against Poe’s chest, emphasizing the command. “No, wait.” Poe pauses, and Hux’s eyes flash with dangerous intent. “Get a rag. Clean yourself.”

“I…” Poe hesitates only long enough to see the clear image in Hux’s mind of exactly what Hux wants to do to him; then, he springs to his feet. “ _Oh._ ”

The desperate heat that had built between them dissipates slightly as they arrange themselves beside the fire. Hux lays out more of the furs beneath Poe, and Poe reclines there, holding his head up on one hand with a rag clutched hesitantly in the other. Hux is pleased at this uncharacteristic shyness. It’s an endearing look for the cocky pilot.

“Go on, then. Remove your jacket first.”

Poe does one better, and takes off his shirt as well. He runs a bit hotter than Hux, but his nipples are still peaked in the chilly air. The chain of his necklace lays across his throat, the ring hidden beyond the curve of his shoulder. Hux runs his eyes along the fine contours of Poe’s well-muscled arms and chest. He wants to reach out and touch, but holds himself back for now, as Poe opens the front of his trousers and pulls himself out. He’s hard, and winces a bit as the rough fabric touches sensitive skin.

“Lovely,” Hux breathes.

Poe’s ribs are visible, and Hux reaches out to run his fingers over them, afterwards sweeping up to cup his pectoral. He has a fine build, would make for good stormtrooper stock at his healthiest weight. Hux has no doubt that even now, and even despite their height difference, Poe could sling him over one shoulder and make off with him. He’s a fine specimen of a man, that can’t be denied, though Hux’s interest in his physical qualities is more for their familiarity than their basic shape. Hux thinks his cock is lovely, not because he’s seen many cocks before to compare it to, or because the form itself is inherently attractive. If it were on anyone else, Hux would have no interest in it. But this is Poe’s cock—it’s hard and hot and touching it makes Poe make the most lovely sounds that flame Hux’s own arousal, so of course as Hux watches Poe tend to himself his mouth begins to water in anticipation of what he plans to do.

“That’s enough,” Hux says, and Poe obediently flings the rag aside. Hux traces a finger down his chest, lifting his eyebrows as his gaze flicks from down below up to Poe’s heavy-lidded gaze. “Good boy.”

Poe inhales sharply, tipping his head back.

Hux grabs Poe’s hips and decides that his first taste should be of Poe’s chest. He starts at the sternum, pressing lips to warm skin in chaste little pecks. He moves incrementally ever downwards, sweeping back and forth in a zig zag, kissing and nipping at Poe’s flesh. Poe’s hands are at his sides, gripping the furs in tight fists, his stomach muscles twitching as Hux approaches his navel. He’s breathing hard, suppressing little moans that nestle in the back of his throat. When Hux finally puts his lips on Poe’s cock, it draws a sharp “ _ah!”_ from the other man, and Poe’s hips twitch up.

Hux places one palm flat along the shaft, the fingers of his other hand digging into Poe’s hip with bruising strength. He can feel the heat of Poe’s arousal on his cheek, and his own cock twitches in sympathy at the monumental effort Poe is expending to keep himself still, laid out beneath Hux’s hands. As Hux drops his hand to fondle Poe’s testicles and finally licks a long stripe up his cock, Poe trembles beneath his touch. Hux’s chest is ablaze with the power he wields, a feeling like none other. Poe is a bundle of energy beneath him, searing hot and straining against containment, and once again it is Hux’s job to channel this energy, gather it and shape it and point it towards his goal just as he had coaxed the hellish fires of Starkiller into a coherent beam.

“What?” Poe pants above him, clued in to Hux’s thoughts—any barriers between their minds dissolving as they come together in a storm of intimacy—and suddenly balks, digging his nails into his palms. “No—“

Hux sucks on the tip of his cock, his cheeks burning as he thinks of energy and light and heat, safety and power and Starkiller and Poe.

Poe’s arousal doesn’t abate, but his eyes fly open and one hand goes to Hux’s hair.

“Don’t—“ he sucks in a harsh breath, “I’m not—that’s not—“

Hux can feel Poe’s disgust, his shock, and something vengeful stirs within Hux. Poe doesn’t want to think about Starkiller when Hux is making him come?

Too bad.

Hux’s head shoots up and he locks eyes with Poe, baring his teeth.

“Get over it!” He snarls. He squeezes Poe’s cock and Poe’s eyes roll up, eyelids fluttering shut as he bites his lip and his hips cant up into the firm grip.

“Maker,” Poe breathes. “Fuck. Yes.”

Hux takes Poe’s cock into his mouth and flings the invective at him: _I’m fucked up_ , and _I told you so._

“Don’t stop,” Poe whines. “You’re perfect, Hux—“

Hux sucks with abandon, feeling the building wave of Poe’s pleasure in the bond between them, dragging him along, right to the precipice along with Poe. When Poe’s moans raise to a fever pitch Hux has to pause to take himself out because he can’t stain the only pair of pants he owns and he knows, knows that he won’t make Poe come without cresting that peak himself.

He returns to the task, savoring the way Poe’s cock stretches his mouth, the way it fills him up and slides luxuriously against his tongue. The space between his legs is hot and aching and Hux breathes in rapidly through his nose as a serious of sharp spikes of pleasure grip his belly, and then Poe is shouting and spurting into Hux’s mouth, and Hux groans as his own pleasure snaps, unfurling into a succession of pulsing waves of ecstasy. He keeps his mouth on Poe until his cock softens, both of them still twitching every now and again with aftershocks.

Then Hux releases him, and lays his head in Poe’s lap, and does not say anything for a very long time.

Eventually, Poe’s breathing returns to normal. He swipes a hand over his face and tucks himself back into his pants, then rests a heavy hand in Hux’s hair. Hux doesn’t move, so Poe begins petting him, until he finally coaxes Hux to look up at him, Hux’s fingers latched on to the waist of Poe’s trousers.

“Thank you,” Poe says. “That was incredible, Hux.”

Hux wrinkles his nose, giving him a sullen stare.

“You know who I am.” Hux is wary now, gripping Poe in such a way that it is impossible to tell whether he means to pull him close or push him away. “You know.”

“I know.” Poe nods. He strokes a finger down Hux’s cheek. “You’re amazing, and I—come here?”

Hux regards him for a long beat. He considers scouring Poe’s mind for every thought he can find regarding what they had just done, because he doesn’t understand how Poe can still look at him like this—eyes wide and earnest, hands coaxing and gentle. Hux is afraid to trust it—but in the end, what choice does he have? He rolls onto his side, splinted leg as cumbersome and painful as always, and Poe ends up scooting down so that they fit neatly in each other’s arms. Hux worries that Poe will find it necessary to have some long conversation about what had happened, and it comes as an immense relief, unspooling in his chest and spreading like a soothing balm through his limbs, when Poe merely tucks Hux’s head to his chest beneath his chin and kisses his hair and whispers goodnight.

Raen makes a muffled little bleat, and it is the last sound before all in the cave fall into a slumbering quiet.

As Hux’s eyelids grow heavy and he sinks into the warm embrace of sleep, the last thing he sees is the flash of a pale leg crossing behind the fire. He blinks, stirring drowsily. There’s the impression of a long-forgotten sound—the slap of bare feet against old hardwood floors—and again, the barest glimmer of the curve of a heel, the rustle of rough fabric sliding over bruised knees. But there is no fear to stir him to wakefulness. Hux’s head droops, coming to rest on Poe’s chest, and when he wakes the next morning he will think he imagined the sight of a young, thin woman padding quietly around the fire, stoking it to keep him and his lover warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, this is what I imagine Raen's species looks like as adults: https://i.imgur.com/Cq0w3hK.jpg
> 
> Surprise! Hux and Poe have been eating adorable creatures all along. XD I'm sorry, I thought it was too funny to resist.
> 
> Raen, of course, is baby, and looks something even more like a cross between a kitten and a baby squirrel but with massive, floppy ears.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have just, like, a buttload of talking.
> 
> I said I'd address Starkiller, didn't I? Well, here we go...

Poe kisses him.

They’re both more than half asleep. Hux’s eyes are closed, his wakeful awareness narrowed to the soft press of Poe’s lips against his. It’s clumsy, uncoordinated—an instinctive search for each other while still wrapped in the heaviness of slumber. Poe falls asleep again with his mouth open against Hux’s, and Hux languishes in the heat of his breath. They sleep, come partially awake, seek each other out like the gentle tilting of leaves towards the sun, then surrender to unconsciousness once again. Every now and then a little moan escapes them, having nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with the satisfaction of a basic need, like the sigh one gives after taking a long drink of cool water.

Hux has never felt anything like this.

He blinks awake after another bought of sleep-addled kisses. Poe’s eyes are still closed, his chest rising and falling with slow, deep breaths that indicate he is sinking back down into sleep now that Hux’s mouth has parted from his. Hux pushes himself up on one arm so that he can look down on the other man. He reaches out and gently moves aside a curl obscuring one long-lashed eye. It’s almost long enough to tuck behind Poe’s ear. Hux clucks his tongue and lets his finger trace the line of Poe’s jaw. There are scissors in the medical kit, but Hux is hesitant to submit those curls he’s grown so fond of to his inexpert hand.

A tiny sound, almost like the beep of a mouse droid, draws Hux’s attention away from Poe.

Raen has crawled out of his little nest of furs and is stumbling over on unsteady legs towards Poe.

Hux frowns.

He watches as the creature bumps into Poe’s ribs, then starts to clamber on top of his chest. It continues making its little meep-like sounds, twitching its oversized ears and swishing its bushy tail. Poe mumbles something, eyes still closed, as Raen starts to lick his cheek.

“Hux?” Poe mutters, eyebrows scrunching, and suddenly Hux has to clap a hand over his mouth to hold back a bark of laughter. Poe’s eyes flutter open. He sees Hux leaning over him, laughing silently into his hand, then strains to look down at Raen without turning his head. The pilot’s mouth melts into an easy smile, and he chuckles as one hand comes up to cup the back of the tiny creature whose forepaws are braced against his chin.

“I can’t believe you two are already ganging up on me,” Poe laughs.

After breakfast, Poe dithers around the cave. He doesn’t seem to want to leave on his daily hunting and gathering expedition, instead engaging in a little game with Raen where he holds his hands up as obstacles for the creature to dart around. Hux wouldn’t care, except that he can feel that something is on Poe’s mind. To Hux it feels like the pull of a drain at the bottom of a tub, his attention like the waters drawn continually to that point, and he finds himself glancing over at Poe again and again until he finally sighs and says,

“Well, spit it out.”

Poe glances up at him, lifting an eyebrow.

“You want to ask me something.” Hux sets aside the shuttle components he’d been casually fiddling with. “And you must be learning how to guard your thoughts, because for once I can’t hear it as if you were shouting in my ear.”

Poe snorts at that, but he keeps his focus on Raen and gives a little shrug.

“Yeah, there’s something I’ve wanted to talk about for a while, but…” He shrugs again. “Not sure it’s worth it.”

“Come now.” Hux can only hope that his airy tone hides the dread that coils in his stomach, sudden and paralyzing. Poe doesn’t tend to shy away from difficult topics, so whatever it is that is giving him pause must be no good at all. “We have little else to do but talk, so, out with it.”

Poe takes another moment to gather his thoughts. Raen grows bored of their game and curls up in Poe’s lap, and when Poe finally looks back up at Hux he’s stroking the little creature’s fur absentmindedly while worrying at his lower lip.

“What do you think about, when you think about Starkiller?”

Hux feels a flash of cold, and works hard to keep his expression blank.

“Hmm. Tell me what you think of, first.”

“Alright.” Poe swallows, and he looks away, his gaze turning inward. Hux takes it as an admission that when Poe thinks of Starkiller he first thinks of Hux, and must actively turn his mind towards other associations. “I think about all the people on those planets.” Poe’s voice is immediately rough with emotion. “I think about if they knew what was happening, if they felt any fear or pain. And I think about what it must be like to have family who died there. What if someone I loved had been on one of those planets? How would I feel?” Poe’s eyes are wet, and Hux has to suppress a surge of annoyance. “My dad is the only family I have left. What if he’d been traveling there? I just imagine everyone who wasn’t in the Hosnian system when it happened trying to contact their family, hoping against hope that they’d been off-world for some reason. Their panic, and helplessness, and grief, and—“

When Poe shakes his head, overcome, Hux finally releases an indignant sniff.

“You’re very sentimental.”

Poe shoots him an angry look.

“This is _normal,_ Hux. Caring about other people is normal.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Fine.” Poe turns towards him, his body language confrontational. Hux picks up a shuttle part and turns it over in his hands, staring at it impassively. “So tell me now, what do you think about if not about all those people you killed? What does Starkiller mean to you?”

“Safety,” Hux says simply.

“ _What?_ ”

“You can look into my mind if you’d like. That’s what you’ll find.” Hux shrugs. “I have never felt safer than when I had the most powerful weapon the galaxy has ever seen beneath my feet, pointed at my enemies.”

It’s actually not _entirely_ true, but Hux thinks he can hide that from Poe. Because he had wanted it to be true—so desperately that he can delude himself into forgetting the moment when the weapon finally fired, and Hux had watched the red beam swelling on the horizon and realized in horror that this would change nothing for him. He would still go back to Snoke, forever chasing his approval, forever dodging the ire of his apprentice, forever looking over his shoulder at the ambitious officers, young and old, who wouldn’t hesitate to put a knife in his back to advance their own positions in that cutthroat environment he would never escape.

Hux had wanted Starkiller to mean safety—permanent, unassailable. But it had only bought him some time.

Poe’s expression, as he stares unbelievingly at Hux, indicates that he might have a suspicion of this, but for the most part he is trying to come to terms with Hux ever believing a superweapon could represent anything other than the purest kind of evil. Finally, he sighs and briefly covers his eyes with one hand. When he lowers it he wears the most tired expression Hux has ever seen on him, and that sparks a little twist of guilt in his gut. Hux may not care about people, in general, but it is becoming increasingly clear that somehow he has come to care about Poe. An irritating development.

“I just don’t understand, Hux. Those people weren’t your enemies. They did nothing to deserve being wiped out—whole _planets._ Families, children, entire cultures are just…gone.”

“Well _I_ was not the one who told them to make their homes in the seat of the government which was unequivocally my enemy.” Hux’s upper lip curls. “I had the chance to rid the galaxy of the New Republic’s Senate and their fleet in a single strike, forgoing a protracted war. I saw the opportunity to cut off the head of the snake and I took it.”

“What the hell did the New Republic ever do to make you hate them so much? The First Order is _evil_ , Hux, you know that better than anyone.”

“We’re not going to agree on this!” Hux is shouting, suddenly, his voice echoing off the walls of the cave. His head shoots up and he glares at Poe, trembling with something beyond anger. “I don’t see the point in discussing this when you refuse to consider that not everyone in the galaxy benefited from the rule of your precious _republic._ That, in fact, the New Republic committed atrocities just as cruel as those of the Order and the Empire before it! But you don’t want to hear that, and similarly I do not want to hear any more baseless platitudes about good and evil. You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Then tell me!” Poe never hesitates to shout right back at Hux, and it sets Hux off-balance, almost makes him want to laugh for just a second before that emotion is swamped by a sudden anger and hurt so fierce he couldn’t possibly contain it. Hux leans into Poe’s space, feeling his face contorting with the hatred welling up inside of him, bursting from a place he normally keeps firmly locked away, and he screams:

“ _They killed my mother!”_

The words burn his throat on the way out. They are not the words he meant to say. Raen is startled out of Poe’s lap, darting across the cave with a distressed little squeak. Before Poe can respond Hux is speaking again, trying to recover his initial train of thought, his more eloquent and developed reasons for hating the New Republic.

“When the Empire fell and the New Republic took back the planets that had been under its control, what do you think they did? It was _war_ , Poe, it always has been and it still is. Planets that were controlled by the Empire were full of people, too, and after the New Republic scorched their cities and ousted the Imperials from their strongholds they _left_ those people to their misery! They had no voice in your precious Senate, they were left adrift, fell to banditry and lawlessness, starvation and poverty! Where do you think we get our stormtroopers? We don’t always take them from unwilling populations. Mostly they come from planets where the people are so fucking poor and miserable that to raise a child in such an environment would be the cruelest fate. Our stormtrooper programs at the very least ensured their child would be _fed._ _That_ is the legacy of your fucking republic, you bantha-brained imbecile! Countless populations in the Outer Rim were abandoned, left to their fate while the Core grew rich and fat and powerful, just as the first Republic had.”

Poe’s eyes are very wide, and Hux feels the victory like a fire in his chest.

“I suppose you’ve forgotten that the Empire was birthed by a corrupted Senate? Of course you have, because it doesn’t fit your narrative, your easy little boxes of black and white, good and evil. And I suppose you never knew that during the cold war, factions in the Senate contracted with the First Order? We were used as the police arm to subdue populations threatening to rebel against certain of _your_ laws. Financial regulations, trading routes that were plagued by piracy after the demilitarization of the Republic. It isn’t public knowledge but I’m certain that your princess knows. I assume it informed her decision to break away from the New Republic and form her own military.”

Hux glances at Poe to gauge his reaction to this news, and feels a twinge of discomfort when he sees that Poe has gone a bit pale. Still, it doesn’t stop him from continuing on, not shouting now but still flinging out the words like each is a knife that could strike viciously at the heart of this disagreement, though he knows that he is only hurting Poe. Yet, he can’t stop himself.

“It must be so nice to be you, Poe. To be so fucking delusional that you think if you just get rid of the bad men then everything will naturally right itself. This galaxy is a fucking shithole, it always has been and it always will be. At least with the First Order in charge everyone would be equally miserable.”

Hux hadn’t meant to say all that. He hadn’t even known he’d believed that until it was coming out of his mouth. He flops back against the wall and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, exhausted in the wake of his emotional outburst. To Poe’s credit, he allows the ‘delusional’ comment to roll off of him. Instead he appears to be thinking deeply, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before responding.

“I didn’t know all of that,” Poe says at last—carefully, quietly, like he’s afraid to stoke Hux’s anger. “But, Hux…that doesn’t mean that what you did with Starkiller was right.”

“I didn’t say it was right. I believed it to be necessary, in my position, given my goals and those of the organization I was born to lead.”

“So you don’t feel bad? At _all?_ ”

“What do you want from me?” Hux stares at Poe. “Think about what you’re asking me to do. You really expect me to shoulder this crushing guilt that you’re so fond of placing upon yourself, for each one of these billions who died at my hand? Would _you_ be able to survive something like that?”

Poe inhales sharply.

“It is regrettable that such a thing was necessary. But that’s true of so many things in life. You seem to fixate on the children who died there, as if they are the pinnacle of innocence. I have seen children do terrible things. I have _done_ terrible things as a child. And are you aware that there are children aboard our Star Destroyers? We don’t have planetary bases, Poe, we’re a mobile population. The stormtrooper program starts with children and they train aboard our ships. Our officer class comes from somewhere—they were children once, like I was, serving as cadets before moving up the ranks as they mature. The Resistance doesn’t seem to care too much about _them_ when they’re shooting at us. And I wouldn’t expect them to, because citizens are at risk in any theater of war. And this entire galaxy is a combat zone.”

“You’ve never lived where there wasn’t fighting,” Poe says, voice full of an awful sort of wonder. Hux shrugs, uncomfortable.

He had expected more arguing, but suddenly the tension in the cave deflates. Hux blinks as he realizes that—he is not angry, and Poe is not angry at him, and he isn’t quite sure what to do with this information. He rubs his thumb against his fingers absently, and when he speaks it’s with an idle sort of detachment, drained from the rapid rise and then retreat of intense emotion.

“I suppose I did, once. On Arkanis. I don’t remember much of life there, though.”

Poe reaches out, brushing a hand over Hux’s coat. Hux takes the hand and lifts it to his face, closing his eyes and pressing Poe’s knuckles against his cheek. He breathes out, letting the remaining tension within him unfurl. It almost feels like an apology, perhaps simply for being what he’d always told Poe he was. Here at last they have the proof: he will never regret firing Starkiller, and Poe knows it, and so perhaps this is the last intimate touch Poe will allow between them.

Poe proves him wrong instantly, as he is wont to do. He pulls Hux against him, drawing his loose fist across Hux’s cheek, brushing against his lips, opening his fingers to cup his jaw and then dropping the hand to press his warm palm insistently against Hux’s sternum.

“How old were you when you left?”

Hux raises his eyes from the hand on his chest to look at Poe. He blinks, his mind feeling sluggish, not quite grasping the reality of Poe’s touch, his care and attention.

“I was five.”

“Is that when your mother died?”

“Yes. The planet was an Imperial stronghold. My father ran the Academy there, and my mother worked in the kitchens. She was not his wife, as you know. When I was five the New Republic besieged the planet. My father and I were evacuated by a bounty hunter sent to retrieve us. My mother, of course, was no one of importance, and she died in the siege. I barely remember it; I don’t know why I shouted at you. It’s irrelevant.”

“I don’t think so, Hux.”

“I saw her, that night,” Hux whispers. “She was here, sitting across from the fire. It was her I chased, when I hurt you. But she disappeared and then I saw Albrenn instead.”

“Tell me about her.”

“I told you, I don’t remember much.” Hux frowns. “I remember my father trying to keep me away from her. I remember running away from him and getting lost in the halls of the Academy. I must have been a very stupid child. Eventually I smelled baking bread and found the kitchens. The ovens made the kitchens warm, when the rest of the Academy was drafty. Arkanis was a very rainy, cold place, but I didn’t mind it so much when she—“

Something inside of Hux unlocks. The breath is knocked out of him by a sudden onset of shivers, and it seems the most inviting thing in the world to clutch at Poe’s shirt and bury his face in Poe’s neck. Poe’s hand comes up to cup the back of his head as Hux gasps, wracked by an emotion he cannot name.

“Oh,” he says, his voice small. Oh, this is what it is like to allow himself to remember. This is what it is like to allow himself to feel.

Poe pets the back of his head and makes those little shushing sounds that used to infuriate Hux, but now when he closes his eyes and tightens his grip on Poe he lets the murmured words comfort him in a way that nothing has since he was last held like this all of those years ago. As he catches his breath, taking hold of himself, he finds that he wants to talk about her. He’s never been able to talk about her, not with his father or any of the children he was raised with and pitted against, not with the other young officers climbing the Order’s ranks and certainly not with any of his subordinates once he had achieved a higher position than his father ever had.

“Have you—“ Hux pauses, thinks if he really wants to ask this question, decides there’s nothing for it but to ask—even if he winces at the vulnerability it reveals, like rolling over and showing his soft belly. Poe hums in encouragement. “Have you—seen anyone?” _Am I crazy?_

“You’re not crazy.” Hux rolls his eyes—Poe doesn’t even seem to realize he answered the unasked question first, and Hux is almost too distracted by trying to shield his thoughts to pay attention to Poe’s next words. “But no, I haven’t seen anyone.” Poe’s hand swipes up and down Hux’s back.

“They both appeared very—substantial.” Hux frowns, eyes narrowing at the memory. “I won’t speak of—him. But when she appeared she was—“ He gestures at the other side of the fire. “And though she reached through it and her hand passed through the flames unharmed, I—touched her, I felt—her—“

Hux realizes that his hand is reaching out for her even now, and he quickly draws it to his chest, embarrassed.

“I did not expect her to look so young,” he admits quietly. “And her hair, it was—blonde.” He huffs out a weak laugh. For some reason, he had imagined her to possess red hair like his own, even though he knows he got that from his father. Still, Hux had wanted very much to think that he had something of hers. Now he isn’t so sure.

“Wait a minute.” Poe leans away just enough so he can get a good look at Hux’s face. “What do you mean? You didn’t know what she looked like?”

“No.” Hux’s brow furrows in confusion. “I have very few concrete memories of that time. Just—impressions, I suppose. I don’t even know her name. Are you saying you know all this about your own mother? I thought you lost her when you were young as well.”

“When I was six,” Poe says slowly. “But, Hux—I know what she looked like. I know her name, it was Shara. Shara Bey.”

“How do you remember all of that? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand how you _don’t._ ”

Hux bristles and snatches away the hand that had been holding Poe’s. He’s abruptly trembling with anger, and shame.

“No no no, Hux—I’m sorry. It’s not your _fault_.” Poe grabs for his hand again and Hux lets him hold it, though his fingers are limp in Poe’s grasp, making no move to reciprocate the tender touch as he waits for Poe to explain. “I think I know what’s going on here. You’re right, I was really young when she died and I probably wouldn’t remember everything that I do without help. After she died, my dad and the rest of our friends and family made sure that I’d remember all of the good things about her. There were _pictures_ of her, Hux, of course I know what she looked like, and everyone in my life did everything they could to reinforce the memories of her so I’d have that part of her to keep with me forever. So I wouldn’t lose her, any more than I had to.” Poe strokes the back of Hux’s hand. “I’m…guessing that that wasn’t the case, for you.”

“My father forbid me to speak of her.” Hux’s lip curls. “There were no pictures.”

“Okay, yeah. That makes sense.” Poe is still petting Hux’s hand in quick little strokes, the taste of an apology in the air around him. Hux relaxes, incrementally.

“I didn’t even recognize her at first.” His voice is soft, distant. “It wasn’t until I felt her hand that I was certain of who she was.”

Poe is silent for a moment. Hux lets his mind go blank, listening to the crackle of the fire and staring at the thin line of light peeking between the edge of the shuttle panel and the cave wall. He feels a kind of hollowness inside of him that he doesn’t know what to do with, as if he could retreat from his body where it rests within Poe’s arms, his awareness funneling down to a single dark point and then blinking out of existence altogether. When Poe says his name it takes Hux a moment to decide to respond, takes his eyes a beat longer to focus on Poe’s face.

“Maybe that’s why you saw people from your past, and I haven’t.”

“What is?” Hux blinks. “I’m sorry, I—“

“Yeah, you spaced out for a minute there.” Poe pats Hux’s cheek, and Hux gives him a tired, apologetic smile. “I was saying that your memories are repressed. Mine aren’t. I can remember my mom and talk about her—it makes me sad, sure, but I can do it. You can’t remember yours, and I can hear how hard it is for you to put together what little you do know. So whatever this is—whatever’s happening here—I think it’s maybe…trying to help?”

Hux snorts.

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen him,” he mutters. He has a hard time believing that anything with good intentions towards him would show him a vision of Albrenn. He has a hard time believing that anything or anyone would have good intentions towards him, full stop. Poe is the only exception—everything else has only ever tried to hurt him, as Hux long ago learned. He fidgets with Poe’s hand, feeling the unspoken question hanging between them, deciding to give it voice at last.

“What is this place?” Hux whispers it, because it is only for Poe’s ears, and he suddenly feels certain that they are not quite so alone on this moon as they once assumed they were.

“I don’t know. This is Rey’s area of expertise, not mine.”

“I’m surprised that Kylo Ren’s attention never centered on this place, if it is truly an area in which the Force takes on agency like this.” Hux worries at his lower lip. “I don’t claim to understand it. The most my knowledge has in common with the Jedi and Sith is on the subject of kyber crystals, which we approach from entirely different disciplines of thought. They claim the crystals are sentient, I know them only to be a source of immense power, the very power which I harnessed to create Starkiller. I always assumed Ren could sense the crystals when they were nearby, but we were in orbit around Chulza for weeks, so I doubt this moon has anything to do with them. He would have tried to harness it for his own uses, I’m sure. Or not so easily left us to our fate here.”

Poe nods along, though Hux can sense his mood dipping with another mention of Starkiller. He’s surprised to find that there is no trace of bitterness or anger in Poe’s thoughts or emotional signature or in his expression. No matter how hard Hux tries to find it, it simply isn’t there.

“Why aren’t you angry with me?” He asks at last. “About Starkiller?”

Poe shrugs.

“I don’t know.” He seems as baffled by it as Hux. “I’m just not. I’m sad that the Hosnian system was destroyed. I’m sad that the galaxy has been at war for so long and that there’s no signs of it stopping any time soon. And…I’m sad for you. I’m sad that you were in the position you were in. That you felt you had to do what you did, and that you did it.” He squeezes Hux’s shoulder. “I think one day you might regret it, even if you don’t now.”

“Hmm.” Hux presses his lips together, annoyed and skeptical. “Poe. Whatever it is inside of you that cares about other people—I don’t have that any more. If I ever did. You say it is normal; well, then I’m defective. It’s like asking me to describe a color I’m not capable of perceiving. My _biology_ is wrong for it, Poe. Please don’t tell me you’ll always be waiting for me to grow this extra hand that I would need to grasp at true remorse.”

“I don’t know why you tell yourself these things,” Poe murmurs, catching Hux off-guard. “It’s not true. You do care. You care about me, you cared about your mother and your friend…”

“And a lot of good it did me.”

“I think that caring about me has done you a lot of good.” Poe leans his head to the side so the top of his head is pressed against the side of Hux’s neck. He moves it up and down in a few short motions that remind Hux of some nuzzling animal. Hux’s chest is warm as he twines his fingers through Poe’s, their interlocked hands coming to rest in Hux’s lap.

“I think that remains to be seen,” Hux says, but he is only half serious at this point, and Poe is turning to him with his lips parted and eyes already half-shut and Hux is powerless to stop himself from falling into another kiss.

It’s a little bit absurd to Hux that they can do this again and again and yet it never gets old, never gets tiresome, never feels like it’s run its course. Kissing Poe has become familiar, expected, wanted and comforting. Hux knows what he’ll get each time they seek to taste each other and yet it somehow still feels new and invigorating, exciting and cherished and so, so much better than he deserves.

“You deserve everything,” Poe whispers, and suddenly Hux is surrounded by the intensity of Poe’s affection. It is somehow untarnished by their talk of Starkiller and the politics of a galaxy that feel so far removed from the reality that is here, with them, made between them in gentle touches and whispered words. Poe wraps Hux in a warmth beyond that of flesh and blood and fire, a warmth that sinks down into Hux’s soul and pulls apart the tight little coils of suspicion, bitterness, anger and fear that feel like they have always been there. What unfurls inside of him is something new. Shaky and untested, Hux almost mistakes it for emptiness before he realizes that it’s something closer to contentment, that the opposite of mistrust is not nothingness but a thing of its own, too precious and tentative to put a name to just yet.

Hux releases a sigh, relaxing into Poe’s touch. He isn’t even bothered by the increasingly obvious fact that Poe is gaining a much better handle on this bond between them, able to withhold and release his thoughts and emotional feedback at will, while Hux is left floundering. Somehow, the realization doesn’t terrify Hux. He knows he is falling, yet he trusts Poe to be there to catch him in the end.

After a few moments, Poe pulls away with a little groan.

“I should really get going,” he says, sounding very much like he’d like to do anything but. “Pickings have been slim lately. It takes me a lot longer to catch the same amount as it used to and they’re not out in the open anymore so I gotta go crawling around in caves to catch our dinner.” He stands up with another little groan, putting his hands on his hips and stretching his back, all while Hux’s insides feel as if they have been doused in ice. He cowers against the cave wall, shivering although he is not cold, all of the warmth and contentment of a moment ago banished by a helpless terror.

“Do—do you think—“

Oh, _stars_ , Hux thinks, it’s begun. They’re going to starve to death, he’s going to have to watch Poe get even skinnier than he already is and then—

“Babe!” Poe must feel Hux’s panic because he drops to his knees and quickly takes Hux’s face in his hands. “Babe, easy, it’s alright. Kriff, I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.” He chuckles. “Really, I’m not that worried, it’s fine. The little guys are still around, they’re probably just responding to some seasonal change. I’ll just work harder the next few weeks to bring in extra and we can stock up on that delicious jerky of yours, alright?” He winks, his thumbs stroking Hux’s cheeks. “We’re not gonna starve, we’re not gonna die.”

“Okay.” Hux nods. “Okay, and I can—I think I can walk, Poe, if I remove the splint—“

“No.” Poe shakes his head, fingers flexing against Hux’s skin. “I know you want to help and I know you’re frustrated, but you need to give it another couple of weeks. You’ll just make it worse if you put weight on it too soon. I’m not a medical expert but I’m pretty sure it takes a lot longer than this to heal a broken leg.”

Hux frowns, and so Poe kisses him again, until this time it is Hux who pushes him off and shoos him out of the cave. Raen bounces around Poe’s heels, trying to follow him, and finally Poe picks him up and places him in Hux’s lap.

Neither Raen nor Hux are happy about this development. Raen is rather expressive, and Hux absolutely recognizes the unimpressed look he is leveled with—the same look Millicent had used on occasions when Hux stumbled into his quarters at the end of his third full shift, interrupting hernap as he flopped into bed fully-clothed and restless with fading stimulants.

The rest of the day wears slowly on. Hux continues fiddling with the parts Poe had scavenged from the shuttle. He has vague plans for a device that could heat larger quantities of water than the fire is capable of—he would almost literally kill for a warm bath at this point—and he’s deep in thought regarding possible sources of energy for this endeavor when he realizes he and Raen are no longer alone in the cave. An unpleasant thrill runs up his spine, and he lifts his head slowly until he meets the calm blue-eyed gaze of the young woman kneeling on the other side of the fire.

“Armitage,” she says, tilting her head, limp blonde hair brushing her thin shoulder.

Hux swallows.

“Hello, mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not be the last update this month. I'm using NaNoWriMo to finish drafting Limerence as much as I can, and since I can't really draft and edit at the same time that means the next update might not be until December. BUT after that, hopefully updates will come more regularly!
> 
> Also, let me know what you think about their Starkiller discussion! This was a pretty important chapter to me, although it definitely isn't the end of their character development regarding this topic and the war in general. Pretty much everything I described is canon in some way or another, although it's a little hard to find sources for it. Man, you should see the Wookieepedia pages on the Cold War, it's...a LOT. This chapter is also the reason I have the tags "Hux apologizes for nothing". It's not that I think that what he did was right, but my entire motivation for this story is the basic premise of enemies-to-lovers: Hux has done bad things, and Poe loves him anyway. Even if Hux comes to have some sort of epiphany of morality later on, I didn't want that to be the basis of Poe's affection for him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like this one. <3

“You recognize me this time.” Armitage’s mother smiles, and Hux tries not to shiver again.

He sets aside the shuttle components so that his hands are empty. He notices that Raen is nowhere to be found—whether he’s hiding in the back of the cave or had scampered out at the first sight of this specter remains to be seen. Hux doesn’t feel the same fear he felt the first time he saw her, but neither is he happy about this development. He frowns, flicking his gaze over the young woman, her rough dress and her pale, bruised knees.

“How old are you?” He knows his voice and expression are clinical. It’s a look that Poe sometimes thinks of as reptilian—an emotionless state that Hux finds comforting and useful.

While this ghost is here, he intends to get some answers.

“I’m twenty-four,” she says, confirming what he’d thought—that she appears even younger than his current age. “The age I was when you were taken from me.”

Hux tries not to do the math that would lead him to the conclusion that his mother had been all of the tender age of nineteen when his father—a man at least forty years older than Hux—had impregnated her. There are some things he does not need to know. Some things that he can infer, with the knowledge of who his father was, and what he would have done when faced with the pretty, waif-ish young woman in front of him, a menial worker indentured to the Academy he presided over. It isn’t a particularly palatable thought.

“Hmm.” Hux purses his lips, flicking his eyes to the cave entrance and back to her. “And when I was ‘taken from you’, you died, is that correct?”

“Yes.” She says it with infinite sadness that somehow comes through as a small smile. That feels right—a smile, below eyes that hold the collective sorrow of a galaxy that has failed her and so many like her. Hux relaxes, just a touch, without meaning to.

“And what is your name?”

The young woman tilts her head, looking thoughtful for a moment.

“Noém,” she says at last, pronouncing it a bit like ‘poem’ but with more emphasis on the last syllable. She seems a little proud of this, folding her hands in her lap with a tiny smile. But Hux feels an abrupt terror grip him, his empty stomach lurching.

“Why did you hesitate?” Hux shrinks back against the wall, suddenly overcome by a bought of tremors that make his teeth clack painfully together. “Why didn’t you know? _What are you?_ ”

“Armitage.” She reaches for him like she had the first night, though the fire has burned low enough that it’s less of a shock to see her pale arm hovering unharmed above the flames. “Don’t be afraid.”

“ _Don’t touch me!”_

She withdraws her hand.

“You’re not her.” Hux starts to laugh, shaking his head. “Of course you’re not. I’m a fool. How could I—“ He covers his mouth with his hand like he’s going to be sick. “Stupid,” he mutters.

“Don’t be cruel to yourself.” Noém’s thin eyebrows draw together in a clear expression of concern. “That’s your father talking.”

“ _Don’t_ —“ Hux clenches a fist, working his jaw. The words freeze up inside of him. With an effort, he forces his teeth apart so he can speak. “Cease this farce and reveal whatever you truly are. I know you are not _her_ , so do not speak of _him_ as if you knew him.”

Noém’s frown deepens, and she gives a weary sigh.

“I _am_ your mother,” she says. “I am just not only your mother. I’m not trying to trick you, Armitage. I’m sorry that you can’t trust me, and that taking this form did not please you as I thought it would.”

“I just want the truth.” It comes out like an ingratiating little whine. Despite himself, Hux has to resist the urge to desperately claw back the things he said that she did not like. He doesn’t want to disappoint her. He craves her touch as much as he fears it.

“I know how much you need your explanations,” she says, with an indulgent smile just for him, a smile he remembers as surely as the baking-bread-and-herbs scent of her when she held him all those years ago. “When I died—when Noém, your mother, died—she returned to the Force. As all living beings must. Her knowledge, her thoughts and memories, emotions and experiences—the very essence of who she was, as a person, something that could be called a soul if it pleases you—became one with the great flow of cosmic energy, like one of the rivers of your homeworld flowing into the sea. This place is a nexus of the Force, what your Jedi call a vergence. It is alive. _I_ am alive.”

“You’re—“ Hux’s tongue darts out to part his dry lips. “You’re the moon?”

Noém’s laugh is tinkling, young and carefree.

“I am the moon.” She shifts from her kneeling stance so that her legs are folded beside her and one slender hand touches the ground, holding her up in a comfortable posture that makes Hux’s heart ache with some long-forgotten memory. He wants to crawl to her and plaster himself to her side and never leave.

“What do you want from me?” He thinks of how last time this young woman before him left the cave, with him stumbling after her, and when he caught up she’d turned into his worst memory. His lips thin out into a bitter line. “Are you here to torment me? Drive me mad?”

“Sweetheart. No, of course not. I made a mistake last time. Your memories are very—difficult.”

Hux lifts an eyebrow in dry appreciation of that.

“I didn’t understand them. I didn’t understand _you._ I never wanted to scare you but you were terrified of me, so I left—but then you came after me and I hardly even meant to shift into that poor boy—“

“Stop.” Hux squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to speak of Albrenn any more. Seeing the memory of his death again, this time through Poe’s eyes, had been more than enough.

“I’m not omniscient,” Noém says softly. “I make mistakes. But this is good, I think. It brought you closer to that nice young man.” Her smile brightens and Hux’s heart squeezes painfully at just how young she looks. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you happy with him, Armitage. My sweet boy. You were always such an affectionate child. Armitage, sweetheart—“ There are tears sparkling in her clear eyes, so light a blue they’re nearly colorless. “I love you so much.”

Hux shakes his head. His eyes burn and it feels as though there is something sharp lodged in his throat. He wants to hate hearing those words, which must be fake, coming from a pretender—a specter of the Force, a sentient fucking rock hurtling through space. But he can’t. His bones tell him this is her. The woman he came from, the only one who showed him kindness through all of his life until he met Poe. The only other person who knew Brendol for who he truly was, the only other person who has ever been on his side. He has been waiting to hear those words again for the past thirty years.

“Please.” His voice is thick, and he shakes his head, not knowing what was supposed to come after that. He can’t see; his eyes are swimming with unshed tears, and so he closes them, and hears the shuffling of bare feet before a gentle touch to his shoulder causes him to jerk away with a little gasp. But the hand slides along his back, and then Hux is crumpling against her. She’s warm and solid; he can feel the rough fabric of her dress against his face. He bows his head, curling up as small as he can get so that she can gather him into her thin arms. It’s like a key fitting in to a lock with a terrible familiarity that rests in something less concrete than her scent and the feel of her skin, though that is part of it, and it breaks him, utterly, until he is helpless against the onslaught of emotion. This is his mother—his _mother._ She loves him, and she is holding him, and when the tears come he lets them break over him in great heaving sobs that echo off the walls of the cave.

“I love you.” His voice is a tortured, ugly thing. “I love you. I _miss_ you.”

He spends several moments unable to speak. Noém runs her fingers through his hair and sings softly in his ear, a murmuring little nonsense-song that he had entirely forgotten and that brings on another bought of chest-wracking sobs. When they finally begin to subside, and Hux has thoroughly wet the front of her dress with his tears, he sniffs and swipes a hand across his face again and again, though he has not stopped _leaking_ and this is all truly horrible, embarrassing, foolish and weak and childish. He feels like a child.

“I thought—“ his voice cracks, and he clears his throat, still catching his breath. “I thought you hated me, that night. I thought you took one look at what I am now and decided you didn’t want me. I thought maybe—maybe back on Arkanis you hadn’t wanted me, either.”

“No.” Noém’s cheek is pressed to the top of his head. She’s holding Hux like he’s made of gold, of kyber, of the most precious material in the galaxy. “I always wanted you. I wanted so much more of you than he would let me have. And I still do.” She takes his face in her small hands and tilts his head up until his gaze meets hers. “You are worthy of love, Armitage Hux.”

Noém stays for a while longer.

Hux moves to rest his head in her lap. His pale fingers clutch at her dress, and she strokes her hand through his hair, over and over, in a way that inspires memories of endless raindrops plinking against tall glass windows. Hux closes his eyes, frowning in concentration as he chases a memory that tries to form like a word dancing on the tip of his tongue.

“You…” He breathes harshly, twisting his finger around a loose thread. Her dress is like burlap; he can see where her skin has been scratched and reddened by it. “You used to give me sweets.”

“I didn’t have much, but I could at least give you that. Every child deserves a treat now and then. You were so quiet and grateful for them. Like a little adult.”

“I’m not like that anymore.” His frown deepens. “Quiet and grateful.” Oh, Ren would laugh at that. Even Poe would find it hilariously inaccurate, though Hux thinks with a little spark of fondness that Poe seems to like him anyway. His selfishness. His callousness. His cruel streak. Noém smiles down at him as if she knows what he is thinking and approves of it. Hux continues fiddling with her dress—he used to do this, too, he thinks, his fingers seem to recognize the motion—and tries to recall more of his brief time with her.

“We watched the sunset together?” His questioning gaze seeks hers and she nods. “You would tell me something about the stars. I don’t really remember. I’m sorry.”

“I would tell you that your future was in the stars. I wanted you to know that there was more out there for you than our little life in your father’s school. And that I was like the earth, always there to welcome you home.” She strokes his cold cheek. “I would have been, if I’d been given the choice.”

“I know.”

Hux falls asleep at one point. He jolts awake, terrified that it was all a dream—but Noém is still there, she hasn’t left him yet. She shushes him, and he blinks sleepily up at her, then lets himself relax into her touch again. Something is nipping at his thoughts, some raw awareness of his vulnerability in choosing to trust this apparition, but he pushes it aside. He knows he should be wary of her, knows he should be asking more questions— _always_ questioning anything good that presents itself to him because it could be a trick, like the way his father would sometimes praise him for something he had done only to reveal that that means he must now do more, ever more to prove that he is worthy of the breath he draws—but instead Hux turns away from it. He asks no more questions, except one.

“This thing between the pilot and myself. You had a hand in it.”

Noém nods.

“Why?”

“First, I want you to know that the only thing I did was bridge your minds.” She moves a lock of Hux’s too-long hair from his face, tucks it behind his ear. “I did not manipulate your feelings for him, or his for you. It isn’t a _trick_ , Armitage, it isn’t fake.”

Hux nods for her to go on. He does not want to talk about feelings, does not want to look too closely at how relieved he is to hear this, how he hadn’t even known to be afraid of it until she reassured him that it wasn’t true.

“Humans are such fascinating creatures.” It should probably alarm him to hear her talk like this—proving that she is much more than human—but instead it feels right, it feels natural, it feels like something his mother might say. “You had so much in common, but you couldn’t see it. You both felt so alone and yet—there you both were.” She blushes a bit, looking very young again, barely more than a girl. “I admit that I was curious, and I—was it wrong of me? Do you wish I hadn’t done it?”

Hux does not answer right away.

“No,” he says finally. “It’s—it’s alright.”

He wouldn’t have said that when the bond first showed itself. He remembers the terror of feeling Poe’s thoughts in his mind, when he had thought himself safe at last from the manipulations of Force users. How helpless and angry he had been, how unfair everything had seemed. It’s different now. He can’t deny that. And whatever this thing really is between him and Poe, he doesn’t want to lose it. The gentle touches, the sleepy kisses, even their fierce intimacy (that he doesn’t want to think about around his mother, even if she is part-moon). It has undeniably filled some absence within him, so basic that he hadn’t even known he’d been lacking it until it had made its home in his breast.

“You won’t be here when he returns.” It isn’t a question—Hux knows, somehow, that Noém is only here for him, or perhaps he just wants to believe that. Though he trusts Poe, relies on Poe, feels some nameless warmth inside of him at the mere thought of Poe, he does not want to share his mother with him. And Noém nods, confirming this, and Hux sits up as he sees that the light has changed and hours have passed and Poe could be approaching even now. “Will I see you again?”

“Perhaps.” She places her small hand in the middle of his chest, and Hux’s heart lurches as he recognizes the gesture as something Poe has also done. Is this a thing, he wonders, that all well-adjusted folk know to do? “I don’t want you to come to rely on my presence, my love. I don’t want you to miss me too much when you leave.”

“I always miss you,” he whispers, before her words hit him and he blinks. “Wait—when I leave?”

“Oh, Armitage.” Her smile is sad now as she stands, smoothing the front of her dress, her fingers trailing over his chest before her hand falls away. “Your story doesn’t end here.”

“Wait!” Hux leans forward. “Please, tell me what you know. Don’t leave me with questions!”

Hux doesn’t beg, and he doesn’t say please, though he will do it for her. Which is why her gentle smile and calm shake of her head unleashes a sudden helpless fury within him, a fury fueled by hurt.

“You will always have your questions. Take care of each other, Armitage. He’ll need you soon.”

She turns, graceful on slender legs, and moves toward the entrance to the cave, growing fainter with every step.

“Damn it!” Hux clenches a fist and slams it against the wall behind him. “Fine! Leave, then! I don’t need you!”

The wind sweeps her away.

Hux growls and fists his hands in his hair, twisting his fingers until the hair pulls painfully at his scalp. He’s breathing hard, his anger beating against him from the inside like an animal trying to tear itself free. He doesn’t hear Poe come into the cave, doesn’t hear his steps pausing before rapid footfalls bring Poe to his knees beside Hux, grabbing on to his elbows and saying his name over and over again. Poe puts his hands on top of Hux’s, trying to tease his fingers apart and loosen the fists gripping his hair. When Hux doesn’t respond to any of it Poe resorts to whispering into his mind, _Hux, what happened, talk to me, let me help._

The anger has nowhere to go, nowhere he will let it go. It evaporates in a sudden hot exhalation that leaves him shaking and empty.

“Her name was Noém.” He lets Poe pull his hands away, cradling them in his own. “It was Noém, Poe.”

“Okay.” Poe nods, bringing Hux’s hands to his chest and holding them there with one hand while the other goes to Hux’s face. “That’s a nice name. Really nice.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Hux trembles and leans back against the wall, letting his head tip back to rest against the cool stone. “I got angry with her. I didn’t mean to, I just—she was leaving again and she said some things—I was confused—“

“Hux, babe, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but—have you eaten today?”

Hux realizes that Poe is feeling his forehead, and he snarls, batting the hand away.

“We ate together this morning!”

“Okay, okay. I know. You’re right.” Poe moves to sit beside him, keeping his hands on Hux. “So you saw her again.”

“I _spoke_ to her. At length.” Hux huffs and looks away. He fights against a rising tide of shame as he realizes just how much in her thrall he was when she was here. He was hardly even suspicious of her at all, except right at the beginning. He considers not telling Poe anything else, a bit spiteful over the fact that Poe’s first instinct was to check for fever or other physical ailments that could have caused a delusion, as if Hux hadn’t thought of that. Hux wouldn’t have said anything about Noém if he hadn’t been certain that she was real, that she had really been here.

He spends a moment collecting his thoughts, and then summarizes the most crucial information for Poe. That their suspicions of the Force at work here were correct, that the moon is somehow sentient, that it is responsible for their mental connection. It’s easy to slip back into his clinical tone, to push aside the wellspring of emotion that had overwhelmed him when he was laying in his mother’s arms.

He doesn’t tell Poe that Noém had hinted at their eventual departure from this place. Hux doesn’t believe her, anyway. He believes in the concrete manifestations of the Force that he has borne witness to. The manipulation of objects and minds is incredible, but it is a far cry from visions of the future, which Hux doesn’t believe are in any way true or reliable. Ren had claimed to have visions, but they seemed to only be things he brought about under his own power. Wish fulfillment is a very real psychological phenomenon, but it doesn’t apply here. Hux doesn’t want to give Poe false hope of rescue or escape from this frozen hell that has come to be as much of a home to Hux as that drafty kitchen on Arkanis or the cold halls of a Star Destroyer.

Poe deserves more than this, of course, but Hux can’t shake the certainty that as for himself—he was always destined to end up in some place like this. He fears that this is the best possible outcome he could hope for, and that any escape from here would be his doom.

The exhaustion that comes next feels inevitable, although Hux did precisely nothing all day and in fact dozed in Noém’s lap just an hour or so ago. Poe holds him close against his side, and Raen appears from wherever he had scampered off to, coming to brush up against Poe with little mewling cries that Hux recognizes as a cousin to Millicent’s entreaties to be fed. Poe strokes the creature’s back, and Raen even moves to sprawl in Hux’s lap, seemingly more fond of him now than he had been that morning.

“Well,” Hux says at last, “How was your day?”

Poe’s smile is tired. His face is streaked with dirt, and Hux tuts as he runs a thumb through it, trying to brush it away but only really succeeding in rubbing it into his skin.

“A lot less exciting than yours.” Poe nudges at his bag with the toe of his boot. “Got some dinner.”

“No trouble?”

Poe shrugs, which is not the answer Hux was hoping for.

“Don’t spare me the bad news.” Hux affects a nonchalance that is betrayed by the way he restlessly strokes Raen’s fur, not even mindful of slipping back into the familiar motion. “I’d rather know now, whatever it is.”

“It’s not really anything.” Poe drags the bag over and hands one of the carcasses over to Hux, and the two of them set about preparing them while Poe seems to mull something over. His feedback in the Force doesn’t feel overly concerned—more puzzled than anything. “Saw something...interesting, that’s all.”

“Interesting, how?”

“Kind of like tracks. Just, strange. Big. Might just be something weird about the cliffs, though. They weren't footprints or anything, more like...” Poe shrugs. “Cracks, that hadn't been there before. Maybe there was a little earthquake or something.” He nudges Hux's side. “I wouldn't worry about it too much, Hugsy. Probably just my mind playing tricks on me.”

_He’ll need you soon_ , Noém had said. Hux doesn’t know why the words pop into his mind at that moment. He pauses with his knife still buried in the carcass, watching with an idle sort of dissonance as his hand begins to shake.

“And you’ve seen nothing like this before?”

Poe forgets, sometimes, that at least ninety percent of Hux’s knowledge of what lies outside this cave comes secondhand from Poe himself.

“Nope.” Poe pops the consonant, and it’s too nonchalant, and Hux decides to hold his tongue instead of asking the thousand little needling questions that he doesn’t really want answers to anyway. _Aren’t you afraid, don’t you understand, what are you going to do._

Instead, he clears his throat, and is proud of the steadiness of his voice as he suggests that Poe go back to the shuttle tomorrow to retrieve some of the blaster rifles that are stored in panels beside each of the jump seats. Poe nods, and then they drop the subject—though later, when they’ve eaten their fill and Hux has cut up strips of meat to lay on the drying rack, when the light dims and Hux decides to forgo flicking on the string lights for fear of what may be attracted to their unnatural glow, when Poe comes to nestle securely against his side, Hux listens carefully to the wind whistling outside and jumps whenever the fire crackles, the logs splitting and flinging sparks up into the cold air.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, as promised at the end of Part One, we have protective Hux and hurt Poe. Enjoy! <3

“C’mon out, little guy,” Poe croons as he peers into the den, no more than a crack in the cliffside that bears the telltale claw marks in the rock marking it as the home of his prey. This one is surprisingly close to their cave, which tells Poe that the little creatures aren’t opposed to moving in on the territory of their fallen brethren, since he has definitely cleared them out of here before. He squints one eye, peering into the gloom, trying to angle his blaster towards the shifting shadows cowering in the back. “C’mon, there’s nothing to be scared of,” he says sweetly, “I just wanna eat ya.”

He doesn’t want to fire his blaster into the den—if he misses the head he could very well end up putting a nasty hole through the edible portion of the creature, and he doesn’t want it to suffer. A clean shot to the head or base of the neck is best, and he can’t get a good angle on it from here. He sighs, backing off from the entrance to the den and sitting back on his heels as he considers his options. Maybe some jerky would serve as bait…?

He takes the dried meat out of his pocket and looks at it skeptically. If he could figure out what exactly these things _eat_ it would probably work better to lure them out. Poe has a suspicion that there are fish in the river—he’s seen these fox-things near there sometimes, and found what look to be piles of razor-thin bones—but the water is cloudy, cold and fast-moving, and Poe has absolutely no idea how to fish or construct a trap. Even Hux had said he couldn’t remember if such information was included in his Academy survival course, and he’d seemed so ashamed of it—borderline panicking as he does whenever he feels like he doesn’t know the answer to something being asked of him—that Poe had dropped the subject right away.

Ah, well. If he waits here long enough he’s sure they’ll have to come out at some point.

Poe props his arms on his knees, letting his hands hang down between his legs. He glances up at the sky, seeing the same dense bank of clouds that has greeted him every day since crashing here. He wonders if Hux’s mom could convince them to disperse for just an hour or two, warm him up a bit.

He snorts, shaking his head. Part of him is still having a hard time wrapping his head around what Hux had told him, about Noém apparently being some manifestation of the moon while also being such a close likeness of a mother he barely remembers that Hux hadn’t seen fit to maintain his usual level of suspicion around her. He hadn’t said as much in as many words, but Poe had seen the way he talked about her. Hux was smitten with her. He’d only gotten upset with her when she left him. He had looked so painfully young, talking about her—Poe could see the echo of the boy Hux had been, the boy Poe had seen in his dream, in his memory of that horrible ship. He isn’t sure he trusts this seemingly benevolent apparition—especially not if it is so powerful that it can manifest the souls of the dead from the Force and bridge the minds of the living, but not powerful enough to help them in their daily struggle to survive.

Then again, Poe has no proof that Noém—the moon, whatever—is capable of mundane acts like that. Maybe he’s just jealous that someone else is taking Hux’s attention, that Poe isn’t the only one here Hux feels affection for. In which case he’s being ridiculous.

A rock falls somewhere in the distance, and Poe casts his gaze up, scanning the cliff. He hears it, sometimes, small rocks coming loose from the cliff face and tumbling down. He just reminds himself to be wary of rock falls, and goes back to watching the den, hoping to see a sign of the creatures emerging, finger on the trigger of his blaster.

A moment later, he cocks his head.

It almost sounds like another rock tumbling down from the cliffs—but something about it is…off. Instead of the sound of rock striking rock, again and again as it gains momentum falling down the sheer cliff face, it’s a bit more subtle, like a rock turning over just once. Poe feels a shiver working its way up his spine. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that it was the sound of something moving carefully towards him, the single _click_ of the rock a misplaced step in an otherwise stealthy approach.

Carefully, he clicks the safety back on his blaster and holsters it, then reaches for the larger rifle slung across his back.

When Hux had told him to take the rifles from the shuttle, he’d only agreed in order to give Hux peace of mind. He’d even laughed at himself a bit as he opened the panels, pulling out rifle after rifle and making sure their safeties were all on before piling them into his arms for the trek back to the cave. He had tried to sneak out that morning with just his pistol, but Hux had caught him and insisted he take a rifle as well. What, Poe had thought, could he possibly need a rifle for? A pistol is just as good. Less powerful, less accurate sights—but good for hunting and, surely, good enough for defense.

When the _click_ of yet another rock sounds out, loud on the windless plain and closer than the first, Poe’s mouth runs dry and he silently thanks Hux for his abundant sense of caution.

He holds the rifle in front of him, focus shifting from the den to the wider landscape. The cliff towers on the left, the ground transforming into gently rolling hills that extend towards the horizon off to the right. The wind has died down considerably from that morning, until it is barely even a weak breath against Poe’s exposed face. The ensuing silence is like a living thing; Poe swears he can hear the hills breathing until he realizes it’s the blood pumping in his ears. A light dusting of this moon’s odd powder-dry snow covers the ground, and Poe’s eyes scan the horizon, vigilant for the rising puff of snow that hangs like fog in the air, that he knows from his own travels is kicked up from the ground whenever a creature of any significant size moves across the land.

His heart beats wildly in his chest. He feels certain, suddenly, that he is being watched, and he has to call upon his combat instincts to release a long breath that steadies his finger on the trigger of the blaster rifle.

The _click_ resounds again. Poe flicks his gaze back and forth, seeking frantically now. A sense of dread takes hold of him, settling heavy in his bones, as he thinks that it sounds less like a rock this time than…something else. An image springs to mind of giant mandibles clicking together, the predatory tilt of a triangular head, the shifting of scales as its body coils to pounce…

He’s being ridiculous. He can’t let his imagination run away with him, not now, not when he needs to focus—

Something absolutely _massive_ shifts on the cliff face, tumbling towards him like an avalanche. Poe only has time to whip the rifle around and fire once before a solid weight slams into him, knocking him onto his back and driving the breath from his lungs.

*

Raen has been acting suspiciously all day.

Hux watches him with narrowed eyes as the creature whimpers and slinks about the entrance to the cave. He paws restlessly at the rock, tail swishing back and forth. If Hux applies what he knows of animal behavior (gleaned almost entirely from observing Millicent) he would say that it is a clear sign of irritation, perhaps even fear. Raen seems to want to dart out of the cave, but keeps stopping at the last second, head tilted and large ears twitching in agitation.

Hux writes it off at first. He gives the bare minimum of effort in trying to coax the creature to him with a terse ‘come here’, but that had never worked on Millicent and clearly Raen is of the same mind. He ignores Hux completely. Hux shrugs. Poe is protective of the thing and fears letting him explore outside the cave, but the thought doesn’t bother Hux. Raen is better equipped to survive in this environment than the two of them; despite his juvenile state, he surely possesses some instinct that would prevent him from throwing himself in the path of danger, which is more than Hux can say for Poe.

But as time wears on and Raen’s restless behavior shows no sign of abating, Hux begins to suspect that something might be truly wrong. Whether that is simply Raen finally responding to his poor diet, malnutrition affecting his behavior and making him irritable as a result of pain or fatigue, Hux doesn’t know. He can’t shake the feeling that there is something going on outside the cave that Raen is trying to direct his attention towards, but that’s ridiculous. Hux gives himself a brusque shake, trying to distill the fear that has settled on his shoulders as he returns his attention to his mundane daily tasks.

Then, Hux hears blaster fire.

He pauses, hands going still where they were fixing a support on the drying rack as he listens carefully. It is not actually uncommon for him to hear blaster fire, when Poe’s hunting brings him close to the cave, but if Hux isn’t mistaken this sounds more like the rifle than Poe’s little hip blaster. The pitch is different with the larger weapons, and Hux has heard enough blaster fire in his life to be able to tell the difference with a startling degree of accuracy.

Maybe Poe has finally learned that the sights on the rifles are better for hunting, anyway. He’d been childishly reticent to change weapons, despite Hux insisting that the precaution was well worth the slight inconvenience of trekking out to the shuttle to retrieve the rifles and carrying the extra weight of a rifle on his back during his daily hunts. Of course, Poe’s bravery is often threaded through with a healthy helping of stupidity, to the point where Hux isn’t certain which is the dominant motivation for these risks he seems to relish taking.

Hux waits, listening.

There is no more blaster fire.

Instead, there’s a scream.

Raen begins to bark. Hux pushes himself up, bracing himself against the cave wall and determinedly ignoring the pain shooting up from his ankle to his hip. The scream cuts off and Raen’s barks turn to a long, high-pitched howl just as a _thud_ reverberates through the cave, shaking the rock and sending dust skittering down from the ceiling. Hux’s heart slams in his chest as he tilts, gains his unwieldy balance, and lurches towards the cave entrance. There is some kind of horrible _scrabbling_ sound, almost like the sound of Raen’s claws on rock but more substantial, more numerous, and Hux wants to clap his hands over his ears to block out the sound. Instead he grits his teeth, pauses only to grab another rifle, and then drags himself out of the cave.

There is no wind today, and the realization strikes an irrational fear in him.

He and Poe have both found that the sense of sound is confounded on this moon. Whether it’s the empty plains stretching off into the distance or the towering rock wall at their backs or the almost constant wind, something tends to distort sound, to make small noises seem loud or muffle loud noises until they’re barely audible, to make them multiply, come from all directions and none. When Hux finally stands outside the cave, posture twisted by the burden of his splinted leg, hand placed bracingly against the cold rock, all he knows is that he hears the sound of a commotion. He can’t pick it apart and make sense of it—there are heavy things shifting, scraping and smacking, sending reverberations through the rock. He feels it under his feet.

_Poe?_ He reaches out mentally, almost having forgotten that they can do this, and immediately he receives a frantic, _Hux!_

_Poe? Where are you?_

There’s no response, only a sense of panic, pain and a great effort being expended.

Then, another shout pierces the confusion and Hux whips his head around. His feet are lurching into a run before he understands what he’s seeing, incited to action by the first lightning-fast burst of knowledge that Poe is shouting. He’s on his back, holding a blaster rifle with one hand on the butt and the other hand on the muzzle, holding off a hideous creature.

The thing is huge, hunched over Poe and snapping at him with insectile jaws—like a giant pair of scissors held just a hair’s breadth from the vulnerable flesh of Poe’s throat, while the creature’s scythe-like forearms are hooked over the rifle. Its considerable weight bears down on Poe, whose arms shake with the effort of holding it off of him. His uniform is torn, and the snow beneath his body is dark.

Hux sees red, a klaxon sounding in his mind.

The pain in his leg abruptly fades to nothingness. He’s still limping because of the splint, and Poe’s strength is failing him, and the thing’s jaws are coming closer and he know he won’t make it in time—

He throws himself down on one knee, aims the rifle, and fires.

The blaster fire glances off of the creature’s hide, and it releases a hideous shriek, like a thousand metal teeth dragging up Hux’s spine. A series of sharp clicks resound in the still air as something that Hux had assumed to be white fur stands up in a wave from the creature’s hindquarters towards its head. Ah, spikes. Lovely. Hux fires again.

A calm settles over him. He’s back on the bridge during a combat maneuver. He’s back in his father’s Academy courses, sighting targets across a blast-pocked field. He’s back in his hand combat exercises, seeking the weakness of his enemy, looking for something to exploit to bring about a victory as swiftly as possible. The creature swings its terrible head towards him, its forearms striking the ground, cracking rock as it clacks and clatters and shivers in rage and, hopefully, at least a small amount of pain.

If its hide is somehow impregnable to blaster fire, this will be a very short fight indeed.

The creature charges at him, and Hux feels nothing but a slight twinge of satisfaction as it leaves Poe behind. Calmly, he adjusts his aim and fires again, shooting for one of the glistening black half-domes that must serve as its eyes. When he hits one, it bursts in a spray of black goo.

The thing roars again, and the sound punches into Hux. His vision swims and he blinks, shaking his head, fighting to stay upright as a wave of vertigo washes over him. It’s only a few hundred feet from him now, bearing down on him with a series of cataclysmic footfalls that shake the ground and rattle Hux’s brain against his skull. He has time to fire once more, the bolt glancing off the thing’s head between its eye and jaw and leaving a smoking stain. Then one of those forearms are sweeping towards him, catching Hux broadside and knocking him to the ground. He falls heavily, the force of the blow sending him skidding across the rocky ground, the blaster rifle flying out of his grip and landing far out of reach.

Hux’s ears ring. There is pain somewhere, but it is still held distant by adrenaline, simply circling him for now like an ambush predator. The monster—for it is, truly, a monster, opening its mouth to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth behind those already formidable slicing jaws, spittle running from its fetid interior as it releases another bone-jarring roar—looms over Hux, and he realizes that time is simply slowing down for him so that he can see in dreadful detail the way it raises its arm, drawing back and preparing to pierce his body like a fish on a spear.

Something is ululating in his head, and Hux thinks it is a phantom cry until suddenly the arm disappears, the creature turning away from him to face a more immediate threat. Though, Hux thinks with dismay, as he blinks and forces his shaky vision to focus on Poe, the poor man hardly seems to represent a threat at all.

He looks so small, standing defiantly before the creature, face contorted in fear and fury. He isn’t holding his rifle—it had already been thoroughly mangled by the creature’s snapping jaws when Hux had arrived on the scene. He just has the little hip blaster, the fucking pea-shooter in his hand, and Hux wants to laugh. They’re going to die. They’re both going to die, and he’s going to have to watch Poe die first.

Unacceptable.

He pushes himself up. Something in his side, or his leg, or both tries to lay him out again—it’s beyond pain, an inherent failing of a physical mechanism that requires him to shift, use different muscles to compensate. He staggers to his feet, breathing hard, vision narrowing to the sight of Poe in his torn uniform, his hair wild and stuck to his face on one side. Everything stops for Hux when he sees that Poe is holding the pistol in his non-dominant hand. His other is hanging limp at his side, the shoulder slumped, blood dripping from his fingers.

Something beyond anger fuels him as he launches himself towards the creature’s throat. This isn’t the combat-calm of moments before. This is nothing that Hux has ever experienced; he’d thought he’d known desperation in the moments when he had fought for his own life, but now, seeing Poe in jeopardy, a fury fills him such that his skin vibrates with it. This thing would threaten Poe? _His_ Poe? Poe, with his dark, wild curls, his sideways smile, his gentle hands and his warmth? His acceptance of all the terrible things that Hux has done? How dare this creature attempt to take something so precious, so irreplaceable, from Hux? How literal fucking _dare?_

If he opens his mouth now he is certain his teeth will crack in the red Starkiller beam that would surely pour from his throat in defiance of this most basic affront to the way things should be. And then he is screaming, in pain and in anger, clawing upwards until a hand latches into the not-fur that slices at the skin of his palm.

He twists his other hand, triggering the mechanism of his monomolecular blade, and in a vicious strike sinks it into the join between the creature’s neck and jaw.

He almost expects it to glance off the hide like the blaster bolts had done. Instead it slices neatly into the carapace, a black mouth yawning and spilling dark, stinking fluid in a curtain that barely misses Hux. Then the creature is thrashing, spinning Hux through the air, arms flailing wildly as it goes into its death-throes. Hux lets go at some point—he doesn’t know, everything is just a wash of grey and shrieking and Poe shouting somewhere and pain as he strikes the ground again.

He tries to hold on to consciousness, but it slips away from him. Everything is very loud until it is nothing at all.

When he wakes, he jolts upright. He doesn’t know how long he was out, but the fact that he cannot see Poe anywhere strikes a terror in him like nothing he has ever known.

“Poe!” He flails upwards, wondering why neither of his legs seem to be heeding his commands. Finally in a sitting position, he looks wildly around, eyes skimming over the twitching carcass of the creature that had attacked them, until his gaze lands on a small and horribly still lump.

“ _POE!”_

Hux crawls to him.

Poe doesn’t move. He isn’t moving. He isn’t—

“Get _up._ ”

Hux reaches his side and gets a hand on his belt, giving him a rough shake. Poe’s head rolls to the side, and Hux sees that his eyes are shut, his breathing shallow and quick.

“No,” Hux whispers, shaking his head. “No, you’re okay. You’re okay.” He drags himself forward until he can take Poe’s face in his hand, patting his cheek, eyes running frantically over him. He has a head wound that bled some but then clotted over, and may account for his unconsciousness. Hux’s hand falls to Poe’s chest, running over him, seeking out injuries that he knows, with a sinking sense of dread, he has no way of addressing.

His stomach drops when he comes upon Poe’s arm.

The shoulder is at such an angle that Hux suspects it was dislocated, but that’s not what worries him. The uniform shirt is torn open and Hux can see blood still seeping up from a deep gash that runs from Poe’s shoulder almost to his wrist. The snow beneath him is dark and wet, his sleeve thick and tacky with blood, and still more wells up from the gaping wound, and Hux’s breath stutters out in an embarrassing little whine.

This is not good.

“Poe.” Urgent now, Hux pats his cheek again, shaking the uninjured shoulder as gently as he can. “Poe, you have to wake up. We have to get you inside.” There’s something in the medical kit that will help—right? Hux struggles to recall what is left of their dwindling supplies. As Hux continues to coax him awake, Poe’s eyelids flutter and he groans. Then his eyes fly open and he sucks in a breath, panting and shaking, pressing his lips together to suppress a whimper.

“I know.” Hux strokes his hair, once, quickly. “I know, darling.” Poe is trying to look at his arm, and Hux holds his head in place, maintaining eye contact. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll fix it, you’ll be fine. I just need you to get up.”

Poe nods. His eyes are tight with pain, jaw locked, breathing heavily through his nose as he uses his good arm to attempt to leverage himself into a sitting position. He falls back against Hux, trembling.

“You can do it. It’s not far.” As Hux tries to lift himself as well, he realizes he’s speaking equally to himself and to Poe. His own legs are shaking as they attempt to bear his weight, a steady fire building in his injured leg that now burns from ankle to hip to armpit. He can’t inhale without a sharp spike of pain in his side—but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting Poe into that cave.

They make for a sorry sight as they hobble back towards the cave, each leaning on the other in turn. Poe stumbles, uncoordinated in a way that turns Hux’s gut icy with worry. It’s either blood loss, or the head injury, or both.

Somehow, they make it inside. As Hux helps Poe sit back against the cave wall, he has to brace an arm to stop himself from tumbling forward. His vision goes perilously grey at the edges, and he has to take a few quick breaths to fight back the dizziness. When he lifts his head, he sees Poe looking at him, his expression wracked with pain yet still somehow finding the space for a flicker of worry as he regards Hux.

“I’m fine.” Hux endeavors for a smile, though he fears it must look more like a grimace. “I’m fine, and you’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Poe presses his lips together, tilts his chin up, and shakes his head. His skin is grey and pale, beads of sweat standing out on his brow.

“Don’t give me that.” Hux keeps his tone as light as possible, ignoring the feeling inside of him, like his soul is screaming. He’d killed the beast, he’d done it, Poe is safe now, he should be safe—

It isn’t _fair_ , it isn’t right for things to end this way. They can’t end this way.

The medical kit is out of reach and he takes in a breath, bracing himself for the wave of pain and vertigo as he forces himself to stand once again. He makes it two shuffling steps before his leg simply stops working, folding beneath him and sending him sprawling. Gritting his teeth against what is now agony, Hux pulls himself forward until his fumbling grasp meets the medical kit. He pulls it to his chest, breathes in, gives a shaky exhale, and begins the laborious task of returning to Poe’s side.

“Hux,” Poe croaks. He breathes heavily, eyes glassy and unfocused. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m _fine!”_ Hux snaps. He wrenches open the kit, willing his hands to stop shaking as he paws through the supplies. He takes the scissors and cuts away the sleeve of Poe’s tunic, peeling it carefully off of the wound and then quickly splashing the considerable length of it with antiseptic. Poe whines, biting his lip hard.

“I don’t—“ Hux shakes his head, eyes wide, mouth dry. He fumbles through the supplies, hands trembling, bile rising in the back of his throat. “I don’t—“ An invisible hand seizes hold of his windpipe and panic lances through him as he whispers to himself, “I don’t know what to do.”

Hux was taught to kill. He was taught to survive. He was not taught to heal. A field injury like Poe’s, among the cadets at his father’s school or the officers of the First Order, would have warranted only the kindness of a suicide pill. Hux’s hands are shaking too much to even pick up the roll of bandages. He doesn’t think he can do the same thing for this that he did for Poe’s hand but he has to do _something_ , and quickly, Poe is still losing blood—

“Hey,” Poe whispers. Hux tries, and mostly fails, to take a deep breath as he flicks his gaze from the medical kit up to Poe. Poe is trying to smile at him. “It’s okay.”

His head rolls to the side, eyes falling half-shut.

“No!” Hux drops the medical kit in his haste to put his hands on Poe. One palm cups his chin, coaxes Poe’s head up, and it’s heavy in his grasp. “Eyes open, darling, look at me. You’ll stay right here, with me.” His other hand presses into Poe’s sternum, in that same gesture that Noém and Poe had used on him at various times to calm him or express affection. Now, Hux thinks, it has to be enough to hold Poe together. “I’m not losing you. I won’t do it.”

Something in him stirs. Hux closes his eyes, sweat beading on his forehead. His palm is very warm.

“I’m going to fix this. I told you I would, and I’ll do it. I’ll fix this.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I’ll fix this.”

He breathes out, following some instinct rising up in him now to push the breath out not just with his lungs. It flows through his flesh, down his arm and out of his palm. Poe sucks in a breath and twitches in his hands, but Hux doesn’t open his eyes. His concentration is wholly focused on flexing this new muscle. He can feel Poe’s body, see the shape of it in his mind’s eye as a featureless glowing representation that burns sickly bright and red along his injured arm. As Hux focuses, as he pushes out another breath, the red line shrinks by just a fraction.

He opens his eyes, and gives a single bark of disbelieving laughter when he sees that the skin closest to Poe’s shoulder has begun to thread together. Then his vision stutters, and he tastes copper on his tongue.

Hux shakes his head and presses on. There’s so much left to do…

“Armitage!”

Hux flinches, but keeps his eyes on Poe, even when Noém’s hand grips urgently at his shoulder.

“Armitage, you can’t. You’ll die.”

“He’s the priority!” He snaps over his shoulder at her, baring his teeth in an animal snarl. “The objective is to keep him alive. That’s the mission. If you don’t like it you can fuck off!”

Noém looks taken aback. Her worried gaze flicks from Hux, to Poe, and back to Hux again before her shoulders slump in defeat.

“I…” Noém sighs. “Maybe I can help.”

She comes to kneel beside Hux, who spares enough of his focus to cast her a sidelong glance.

“Why didn’t you warn us.” The words are terse, bitten off as Hux grunts and closes his eyes again, pouring more energy into the current flowing from him to Poe.

“I didn’t know.” Her voice is small. Her hands hover over his, over Poe, but then she frowns and moves back, places her palms flat on Hux’s upper back. It feels good to have her there, even if he is annoyed with her.

“You claim to know that I will leave the planet.” Hux had assumed she’d meant that he and Poe would _both_ leave the planet, but now…”And you said ‘he’ll need you soon’. Is this what you meant?”

“Maybe. Sweetie, I’m so sorry. I told you I don’t know everything. I—these creatures…” Her palms are very warm, Hux can feel them through his coat. “Before you two arrived, they were all just…points of light. They’re _part_ of me. I can’t explain it.” He thinks he can hear tears in her voice. His arms begin to shake, and one of her hands slips from his back to cup his elbow, holding his arm up.

Hux finds that he does not need to concentrate so much now. It’s like he’d dug a trench that channels water downhill from a river; now that the groundwork is laid, the energy simply flows from him and into Poe, and he doesn’t have to think about it. He keeps his hands on Poe and watches, fascinated, as the torn skin knits together, trying to ignore the intense feeling of cold seeping down from the crown of his head, washing over his face and ears and down his neck, creeping towards his spine.

“Sweetheart.” He thinks Noém is crying. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Hux shakes his head. His heart is beating very fast.

“Nobody cares about me,” he says thickly. His lips are numb, the words slightly slurred. “Nobody but him. I’m not—without him—no.” He shakes his head again. “No.”

Something that had been impressed upon him during the long years of his Academy training was the concept of acceptable losses. As an officer, he would have to be prepared to make difficult decisions based upon priorities that might shift during the course of the mission. Not everything—or everyone—was salvageable. Sacrifices would have to be made in pursuit of victory, and even the shape of that victory could change at any moment. The very instant that Hux saw Poe standing before that monster with nothing but a blaster in his hand and defiance in his eyes, Hux’s priorities had solidified.

Poe is not an acceptable loss.

Therefore, even as Hux leans over and spits out a mouthful of blood, all he feels is victory.

Poe is stirring now, blinking and lifting his head, turning to look at his arm with wonder. The skin has come together, red and raw but whole. He’s still pale, but looking stronger, no longer losing blood and even flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulder tentatively.

“What—“

The rest of Poe’s words are lost to Hux. Everything is muffled and distant, and he can no longer feel Noém’s hands on him. He can’t feel much of anything at all. The cave spins around him and suddenly he is looking up at the ceiling. Then Poe’s face comes into view, his lips forming the shape of Hux’s name. He looks afraid, and Hux wants to tell him that everything is fine. He won. This place tried to take Poe from him, and Hux found a way around it. He’d fixed everything. He had won.


	21. Chapter 21

“Fuck.” Poe pauses to quickly push his matted hair out of his eyes before returning his hands to Hux. “Fuck, fuck. Why isn’t it working?”

He has both hands pressed insistently against Hux’s sternum. His arms are shaking violently.

He knows that Hux did something. Everything that had happened after the creature first attacked him is a blur of pain and adrenaline, but he remembers making it back to the cave, seeing the panic in Hux’s eyes and wanting to make it go away. He’d told him it was okay—and then things get fuzzy, confused. Hux was talking to someone, and putting his hand on Poe’s chest, and then his arm had started to tingle and prick. The next thing he knew, warmth was flowing into him, suffusing him with an energy close to euphoria. He’d almost laughed, when he finally opened his eyes and saw that—miracle of miracles—his arm was _healed…_

Then Hux had collapsed, lain lifeless in Poe’s arms.

“C’mon, c’mon.” He presses harder. “Why can’t I do it?”

Nothing happens. No matter how hard Poe tries, he can’t figure out what it was that Hux had done for him, or how to replicate it. Hux’s face is grey, eyes closed, lips red with blood. He’s cold, and Poe can’t even tell if he’s breathing. Poe tries to feel him through their bond, but there’s only a tomb-like silence on Hux’s end, not even the faint emotional feedback he gets when Hux is asleep.

“ _Fuck.”_ Poe’s voice cracks on the syllable, and his next breath stutters around a sob. He sits back on his heels, hands dragging lightly along Hux’s chest. This isn’t working, and frustration married with a sour panic bubbles up in him until he can’t hold it in any more.

He lays himself out beside Hux, trying to share his body heat with the other man by plastering himself to his side. He rests halfway on top of Hux’s chest and pulls Hux’s arm over him, because he is cold and tired and scared and needs this small comfort of hiding in Hux’s arms. He buries his face in Hux’s coat as the tears come, all of the adrenaline from their fight with the creature and Poe’s injury giving way to a horrible emptiness.

“Why did you do that?” Poe clutches at the still body beneath him. “Why, Hux?”

Hux is a survivor. He should have saved himself, but instead—instead—

“I should be able to help you.” Poe’s voice is thick with tears. Maybe if he acts pathetic enough, Hux will wake up to tell him so, his disgust at the emotional display so thorough it’s enough to wake him from this death-like sleep. “Why can’t I help you? It’s not fair.”

Is it something wrong with Poe, that he cannot do what Hux had done for him? Is he too selfish, too _normal?_ In comparison to Hux, who Poe is convinced—has been, for a while now, and moreso with each passing day—is the most wonderful and interesting person he has ever met, it seems likely. He isn’t even surprised to find that Hux had this hidden power. Hux is always surprising him. It’s what Poe—

Why he—

“You called me darling.” Poe sniffs, not sure what he means by saying it, but thinking it’s important to let Hux know that he heard it. Poe thinks he feels Hux stirring slightly beneath him, just the barest rise and fall of his chest in a shallow breath. He closes his eyes, focusing on the weight of Hux’s arm across his back, and slips into an uneasy sleep.

When he wakes again, the fire has died down to glowing embers, the cave is perilously cold, and Hux is still unconscious.

Poe extracts himself and builds the fire back up quickly. He gets his hands under Hux’s arms and drags him closer to the flames, laying him down and gathering up the hides to pile them on top of Hux. He strokes his hair, wipes the blood from his lips, lifts his head and tries to feed him a trickle of water. He grabs one of the remaining blaster rifles, piling the others by his side, and settles next to Hux facing the cave entrance with his legs in a protective cage over the other man’s chest.

Then he waits.

The rifle is heavy in his hands, and he dozes restlessly with his back propped up against the cave wall. He’s still weak, likely from blood loss, and it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. But he has to watch over Hux, has to make sure nothing else will come after them. The terrible face of that monster, its jaws snapping above his head, chases him from dream to dream. Poe can’t shake the feeling that this is all his fault. He’d been complacent with their life here, so settled into the daily rhythm of survival that he’d dared to think they could live unmolested for as long as the food held out, as long as that transmitter went unanswered, as long as Hux allowed him back into his arms at night.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep again until he wakes to the sound of feet slapping against the rock.

He jerks awake, blinking and staring wildly about the cave, hands tight on the rifle. He spots a figure retreating quickly towards the cave entrance and barks,

“Hey!”

The figure stops.

As it turns towards him, Poe’s mouth drops open.

This must be Noém.

She’s horribly thin. Hux had never mentioned that. He had told Poe that she was young, and she is, young and almost waif-like with her unwashed blonde hair and too-big eyes. Her rough dress wouldn’t be near enough to keep her warm here, especially not with those bare legs and feet, but Poe supposes she isn’t really _here_ like they are. Poe can’t help but stare, confused by the storm of emotion he feels at finally seeing her. It wasn’t that he hadn’t believed Hux—but it was one thing to hear about it, another to see a person in their little cave that isn’t Hux, that by all logic shouldn’t be here at all.

They stare at each other in silence. Poe shifts his feet, and her gaze flicks to Hux, who is still laying beneath Poe’s legs. Then she looks, rather pointedly, at some spot over to the left, and warily Poe follows her gaze. His eyebrows go up. There’s a pile of mushrooms that hadn’t been there before—and fish, and pale oblong shapes that Poe realizes must be eggs. He jumps as Raen suddenly darts out from behind Noém’s legs, pouncing on the pile of food and carrying away an egg in his mouth. He comes to curl up next to Poe, cracking the top of the egg carefully with his teeth and lapping at the yolk. Poe looks up at Noém.

“What the fuck,” he says flatly.

Noém smiles, hesitant and a little sad.

“Hello, Poe.”

She takes a step towards him, and Poe instinctively raises the rifle and points the muzzle at her chest. She stops, folds her hands in front of her and regards him quietly.

“You don’t trust me.”

“Why should I?” Poe’s finger isn’t on the trigger, he has no intention of actually firing on Noém, and he doesn’t believe it would have any effect anyway. Still, he keeps the rifle aimed at her, eyebrows in a flat line and mouth curled into a frown. “Look what’s happened. You’ve been talking to him; you really couldn’t have warned him? Warned _us?_ And what the fuck is that?” He gestures at the pile of food. “An apology? Sure would’ve been nice to have had some help before everything went to hell.” Anger flares up in him and Poe thunders, “Look at him!”

Noém looks.

“I know you were there! You let him do this to himself.”

“I tried to stop him. He wouldn’t listen.”

“Well what the fuck am I supposed to do now?” Poe blinks, angry at himself for not being able to hold back the tears.

“Eat. Rest. Heal.”

“And I should just trust you, huh?”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Poe. Far from it.” She takes another step, reaching her hand out toward Hux. “May I? Please?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I just want to feel him. I—I’m not a god, Poe, I don’t know everything that’s going to happen and I can’t fix everything but maybe I can do something for him. He’s not as bad off as I’d feared. I was worried the effort would kill him.”

Poe shifts, glaring sullenly at her. Then he nods, moving his legs and scooting back a bit so when he crosses his legs in front of him his knees are pressed to Hux’s side. He doesn’t keep the rifle trained on Noém, instead looking determinedly past her and at the cave entrance, communicating his continued fear that at any moment some other horror will come upon them. His stomach rumbles a bit, which is embarrassing. He feels a petulant urge to refuse to eat what she’d brought them, though he suspects he’ll have to, especially if he’s too weak (or wary) to leave the cave any time soon.

Noém kneels by Hux’s head, and despite himself Poe’s heart softens a bit as he sees the gentle affection with which she strokes his hair out of his face and lays her palm on his forehead. Noém closes her eyes, and nothing happens for long enough that the silence begins to bother Poe.

“I tried to help him,” he says, a bit defensively. “I did what he’d done, with my hands—but nothing happened, it didn’t help.” He frowns.

“He shouldn’t have been able to do it in the first place,” Noém mutters. “I believe it was our connection. It’s not even a skill I’d known I’d possessed. I don’t suppose he told you what I am?”

“Some.”

“Well, let’s just say this is all a learning experience for me, too.” She sighs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I think that’s what it was. I think somehow we had forged a connection between us and he was able to harness some power of mine.” Poe wants to smile at that. It sounds like Hux—seeing the potential for power everywhere, taking what he needs and twisting it to his own purpose. Then Noém says, “But he channeled it through himself, using his own energy, and it did damage on the way through.” And Poe’s heart quails in the face of those words, of exactly how much he has to lose.

“I want to give it back.” Poe’s voice is rough, and he has to swallow before he can continue. “Whatever he gave me, it’s too much. I want him to have it, it’s not worth this.”

Noém gives him a tired smile.

“He said much the same about you.”

She places her hand on Hux’s chest, and Poe jumps again as Hux suddenly draws in a harsh breath.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to keep this form.” Her voice is shaky, and Poe sees that her arms are trembling. It stirs something protective in him, like it’s just hitting him that he’s watching a young woman, little more than a girl, growing weaker by the moment. He has to stop his hand from moving towards her. “There’s internal damage. I’ll need to fix that or it will kill him. I can’t do anything for his leg.”

“Whatever you can do,” Poe says quickly. “I’m—I’m grateful. Thank you.”

She glances up at him, giving him a shaky smile, then closes her eyes and furrows her eyebrows in concentration. Poe expects to see or feel something—light, heat, anything to indicate that there is an intense, mystical power flowing from her and into Hux, but there’s nothing. Just Hux breathing deeply, regularly, the color returning slowly to his face, while Noém begins to fade.

Finally, when Poe can see the opposite cave wall through her insubstantial form, she sits back on her heels and looks at him.

“He should know that I love him.” Her voice is thin, with a slight echo, like a radio transmission falling out of tune. “I’ve told him so. But if he ever seems to forget it, please remind him.”

“I will.”

“I won’t tell you to take care of him. I know you will. Goodbye, Poe.” She bends down, places her lips on Hux’s forehead, and the last thing Poe hears before she shimmers and disappears is a sad little whisper. “Goodbye, my sweet boy.”

Poe squeezes his eyes shut, and hot tears slide down his cheeks.

He’s responsible for this, too, of course. If he hadn’t gone and gotten injured, if Hux hadn’t given up everything for him, he wouldn’t have ripped apart mother and son who had waited thirty years to be together again. He’ll have to tell Hux at some point that he’ll never see Noém again and it’s because of him, because Poe was complacent and _stupid_ , and—

“Poe?”

“Hux!” Poe gasps and throws the rifle aside, falling forward onto his knees and reaching for Hux’s face. Hux looks confused, even a bit scared as he blinks up at Poe, eyes narrowing as he sweeps his gaze back and forth over Poe’s face. “How do you feel, baby?” The word slips out, but as he says it Poe feels the rightness of it in his chest.

“Leg hurts,” Hux mutters, then pauses, thinking it over. “But I—I think I’m alright. Poe, how? Tell me you didn’t—“

“No, I tried but I couldn’t do what you did. Don’t worry, baby, I’m fine, everything is fine.” He can’t hold back anymore—he kisses Hux, tastes his own tears as they slide down his face to where their lips are crushed together. He has to break away to release a sob that has built up in him, and he tangles his fingers in Hux’s hair. “I was so scared, Hux.”

“Mmph,” Hux agrees, muffled against another desperate kiss. After a moment, when Poe is finally able to control himself and pull back, Hux asks, “What was that thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are there more, do you think?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, Hux, but I’ll be more careful from now on. I promise. I’ll keep the rifle on me, and I know what to look out for now. I heard it way before it hit me, I just didn’t know what it was I was hearing. And I kept looking out at the hills, but it was camouflaged on the cliff face and ambushed me from there. I know that now. This won’t happen again.”

“Well, good.” Hux struggles to sit up, and Poe puts a bracing arm around his back. “Because I don’t think I’ll survive another round of that.”

“I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry.” Poe grabs at Hux, pulling him into his arms in a bear hug.

“Whatever for? This wasn’t your fault.”

“I feel like it was.”

“What a surprise.” Hux pinches his side. “Before I forget, I should tell you that Raen knew something was amiss. He was pacing, restless, and obviously distressed. So if anything, I should have known you were in trouble and attempted to call you back.”

“Maybe I should take him on hunts with me, from now on.”

“That may be wise.”

They spend the next few moments touching each other. Hux runs his fingers down the long, angry red line on Poe’s arm, all that is left of the wound that should have killed him or at least cost him the arm. He fluffs back Poe’s curls, frowning when his fingers encounter dried blood, and thumbs at the cut above Poe’s eyebrow.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Poe says, “that’s not gonna kill me. It can heal on its own.”

In return, Poe examines Hux by running his hands over his chest, experimentally pressing his thumbs in here and there, testing for any of the internal damage Noém had spoken of. Hux only moves in response to the tickling sensation, and Poe is satisfied that nothing is broken there. His eyes fall to Hux’s leg, and he runs a gentle hand over his thigh. Hux hisses before he even gets a chance to brush his knee.

“Is it the same as before? Or—?”

Hux shrugs, lips pressed together, and Poe gives him a mental nudge. He sighs.

“It may be slightly worse.”

Poe grimaces, and pulls Hux’s head forward so he can tip his own until their foreheads touch.

“You’re so fucking brave.” His voice wavers for a moment as emotion grips him. He’s so fucking _proud_ of Hux. Poe swallows, and then laughs lightly. “I mean, I never thought you were a coward or anything, but shit. I really thought I was a goner there when that thing—and then you were just _there_ , and turns out you’re a crack-shot?”

“Hardly,” Hux sniffs. “I know how to operate a blaster. I missed twice out of three shots. I was aiming for its eyes.”

“You didn’t flinch when it came for you! Hux, do you know how fucking _scared_ I was?”

“You’re acting like you don’t know I’ve seen combat before.” Hux chuckles, patting the back of Poe’s head.

“Yeah, alright,” Poe says, chagrined. “You caught me. Maybe I underestimated you.” Hux hums, unbothered, and Poe goes on in hushed, reverent tones. “But Hux…you _saved_ me. Not just by killing that thing, but back here, when you…”

“Yes, hush, I know.”

Poe bites his lip, his eyes taking on a teasing glint.

“You saved me. You thought it might kill you and you saved me _anyway._ ” Poe grins, voice going sing-song. “You _liiiiiike_ me.”

Hux rolls his eyes, but he’s blushing fiercely.

“We’ve already established that I’m doomed without you. Consider anything I do for you to be an investment in my future wellbeing.”

“Yeah, okay.” Poe takes Hux’s face in his hands and kisses him gently, still not convinced that either of them aren’t going to fall apart at a moment’s notice. It feels like the first chance he’s had to catch his breath since the creature attacked him. He wonders if they can go back to normal, after this.

“Do you still feel safe here?” He whispers, not willing to trust the feeling in his own heart that tells him: yes, this place still belongs to them, and they can defend it from any outside threat. Hux hums as he thinks, and Poe takes a moment to appreciate the way that Hux always takes his questions seriously. He really _thinks_ about it, whatever Poe asks of him, and that sort of care is something that Poe is just now realizing he cherishes. It makes him feel important, like he matters.

“Yes,” Hux says at last. “Not that either of us really have a choice. But, yes. It may be foolish butdespite everything I do feel safe here…with you.”

“Same.” Poe smiles against Hux’s lips. “You know, I’m starting to feel sorry for whatever comes after us next. We make a pretty formidable team.”

“Tempting fate, as always, Dameron.” Hux leans against him for a few more seconds, then straightens. His eyes are tired, lids heavy and lines of exhaustion evident in his pale skin. “Not to be exigent, but I would like to eat something, if we have anything available.”

Poe’s eyes flick to the supplies Noém had left for them, his stomach doing a nervous flip.

“Uh…”

“Oh!” Hux raises his eyebrows as Raen comes around from Poe’s other side and puts his forepaws on Hux’s uninjured thigh. He still has half of an egg shell clutched between his teeth, eyes round and guileless as his large ears twitch towards Hux. “I’m glad to see you intact. And what do you have there, mister?” Hux holds out his hand, and Raen drops the egg shell obligingly. A curious little frown works its way onto Hux’s expression, and Poe stammers,

“That’s—um—“

“Is this an _egg?_ ” Hux looks at Poe, and when Poe can’t help but glance over at the pile again, Hux follows his gaze and his eyes go wide. “Where did you get _fish?_ Poe, what’s going on?”

“This is from—it’s from—“

“Why do you look guilty?”

“Hux.” Poe’s face falls. He’d been trying to ignore the inevitable telling, and had—for some stupid reason—thought everything was normal between them when they were up to their usual banter. But now he has to tell Hux and he’s not sure he can. He breathes in shakily. “Hux—“

“Just _tell me_ , Poe. Stars, you look sick. Whatever it is can’t be so bad as you’re—“

“Noém was here!” Poe blurts out. His eyes are wide, heart hammering in his chest as he looks at Hux, shaking his head. “She was here, she—she brought that food, I don’t know where she got it.”

“Ah.” Hux is holding his emotions closely guarded, his face an unreadable mask. “Well. About time she helped out around here, I suppose. I thought—well. I thought we’d agree that she wouldn’t—around you—but it’s fine. That’s alright.” Poe can tell Hux is trying to convince himself that it’s okay that Poe saw her, and he groans, putting his head in his hands.

“Poe, really, it’s fine.”

“That’s not—“ Poe’s voice is too high. “There’s more. She—healed you, Hux, and she’s—gone.”

“Gone?”

Poe rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, feeling hot tears there. His own mother’s death is heavy in his mind and guilt threatens to overwhelm him. A hiccuping sob takes him by surprise.

“She said she couldn’t hold her form. She said she loved you. She said goodbye. She healed you and she disappeared and she’s not coming back and it’s all my fault that you’ll never see her again, _Hux—“_

“Shh.” Hux draws Poe in to his chest and Poe goes willingly, hands still plastered over his face. “Now, now. That’s quite enough of blaming yourself.”

“You should hate me. I got hurt and that’s the only reason you did what you did, and it almost killed you, and then she—and I was the last one to see her—“

“Poe. She’s been dead for thirty years.” Hux tightens his arms around Poe and Poe inhales, trying to calm himself, relaxing into Hux’s secure hold. “This isn’t like you losing your mother, or me losing her the first time.”

“You’re not upset?”

Hux thinks about his answer, and Poe is so, so grateful. Hux won’t lie to him, not about this.

“I would have liked to have seen her again, yes.” Poe tentatively feels out the bond between them, finding that behind Hux’s words is a deep sorrow held at bay. It doesn’t touch his voice, but it’s there, and Poe clutches at him, so angry with himself he can’t bring himself to respond. “But I’m not mad at you. I’m glad you saw her. That means I’m not crazy. That pile of food over there also indicates that I was not hallucinating her presence. If she’s gone, she’s gone. I was lucky to get the extra time with her that I had.”

Poe cracks an eye open, looking up at Hux from where his face is pressed against Hux’s chest. He frowns, and says sullenly,

“You’re too good to me.”

Then squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in Hux’s coat again.

Hux strokes the top of his head, saying nothing more as Poe comes to terms with all this. He’s exhausted. He wants to go to sleep in Hux’s arms and stay that way for a very long time. Hux must see the thought in his mind because he hums agreeably and squeezes his arms around Poe.

Eventually, Hux’s practicality takes over. The fish have to be cooked before they go bad, the eggs as well. Poe finds that when he tries to look at Noém’s offering he loses his appetite. Hux urges him to sit back against the wall and get some rest, and Poe agrees to it, too emotionally wrung out to do much else other than watch.

They have a hearty dinner, far more substantial and varied than anything they’d had since they became stranded here. Poe picks at his food at first, still morose, still dissatisfied with everything that had happened, wary of Hux’s quick acceptance of the news of Noém’s fate. At one point Hux looks up from his food and asks, carefully withholding his emotions,

“What did you think of her?”

And Poe says that he was suspicious of her at first, but in the end liked her because she had so clearly cared for Hux. Hux nods and says he felt much the same, and then the conversation tapers off for the night. Hux cleans up from dinner, does his best to preserve the food they had not eaten, and they prepare for bed.

It is only much later, when Poe has almost drifted off to sleep, that Hux lets go.

It starts with Hux fidgeting, moving his fingers restlessly along Poe’s shoulder in a light touch that is just enough to keep Poe from falling asleep. Emotional feedback starts seeping through—only then does Poe realize just how much Hux had been holding back—and Hux starts breathing irregularly, in shallow pants against Poe’s neck. He doesn’t want Poe to know he’s losing control, and Poe stays still, feigning sleep even though he knows that Hux knows that he is awake. Finally, Hux presses a shaky kiss to the side of Poe’s neck, hot tears smearing against his skin.

They aren’t sobs, so much as they are quick, desperate inhalations, which hitch in Hux’s chest before juddering out, carefully, as carefully as Hux is capable of. He holds on to the last little bit of control that he can, and it’s only infrequently that his breath catches in the back of his throat in a sound of sorrow. He sniffs, and when he blinks Poe can feel his waterlogged eyelashes fluttering against the sensitive skin at his throat. Poe wants to say something, wants to shift and hold Hux even closer, but there’s a terror underneath the sadness. Hux doesn’t want to break, not more than he already has, and if Poe makes a single move to comfort him he’ll lose himself completely.

Poe bites his lip and does what Hux needs him to do, which is nothing.

Hux falls asleep after a while, but Poe lies awake almost until dawn, listening to the crackling fire.

*

They have two days.

Two days of quiet fire-smoke nights filled with banter and tender affections given and received; two days of slow, sleepy mornings with Raen bouncing around their heads as they wake up, bit by bit, cradled in each other’s arms; two days that they cannot know will be their last in this home they’ve made for themselves, against all odds.

For two more days the transmitter that had sat outside the cave for weeks pings uselessly up into the sky, the signal refuted by the invisible veil of the Force that had shielded the moon from prying eyes for ages untold. For two more days the great carcass of the monster they had slain lays in frozen agony beyond the mouth of their cave. For two more days they eat what they can find and kill and cook; they plan for futures they can’t predict; they hang suspended in a moment of calm, blissful in their knowledge that there is nothing they can do to extend it should the galaxy call upon them, once again, to act. For two more days they think this might be all there is, each with his own quiet acceptance of a life that is not perfect but still surprisingly good.

Two days later, it’s a normal day.

Poe wakes to find Hux’s arms wrapped tightly around him. He smiles, turning his head until his face is hidden against Hux’s neck. He kisses the soft skin there, kisses that turn to nips as Hux slowly stirs, grips Poe tighter, releases a sleepy little moan. Poe draws one of Hux’s hands towards him, pushing the sleeve of his tunic up to reveal a length of pale wrist. He presses his lips to the delicate pulse, inhaling and then pushing out the breath so it fans hot over cold skin. Hux shudders, and his other hand falls to the bulge in Poe’s trousers. Poe can feel Hux’s satisfaction at finding him hard, the way that Hux revels in the knowledge that anyone could want him so desperately as Poe seems to. And he does. Poe pants against Hux’s neck as Hux brings him off, draws Hux to him in an aching, bruising kiss afterwards, palms frantically at Hux’s clothes, eager to return the favor. Hux makes the sweetest sounds when he comes, goes pliant in his arms, and it takes Poe a very long time to convince himself to roll away from him and get himself in order for the day. There is hunting to be done, cooking and fire-tending and all the little things that have come together to buttress the sweetness of these intimate moments.

It’s a normal day, and the sun is rising, and Hux is moving his hands over the disassembled shuttle parts and Poe is threading his tools through his belt when they hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a very brief mention of reylo at the beginning of next chapter. If that’s your NOTP I understand and give you warning so you can bail out now. ❤️


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said last chapter, brief mention of reylo right at the beginning here, ends after the first asterisk.
> 
> I absolutely could not decide whose perspective to write from in this chapter, so I ended up writing both Poe and Hux’s perspective of the same events. It’s probably not the best writing choice, but I couldn’t get it to work for me any other way. Hopefully it won’t be repetitive/boring to read.
> 
> Further content warnings for this chapter are basically Imperial/canon-typical suicidal thoughts/ideation. Thank you for coming with me this far on our journey and allowing me to break your hearts just a little bit more. If you can hold out there will be a happy ending, we’re just not quite there yet. <3

Half a galaxy away, on a waterlogged planet in the Outer Rim, in a dimly-lit room with nothing but the quiet susurration of a rotating fan to break the nighttime silence, Rey suddenly lifts her head. Her hair is plastered to one side of her face from the relentless humidity of the planet where the latest Force-sensitive child had revealed herself to Rey’s meditative search. Blinking sleepily, she paws a bit of drool off of her cheek, her other hand pressed to Ben’s chest.

“What is it?” He mumbles. Rey puts her hand on his face, squishing lips and nose beneath her palm.

“Shhhh.”

She cocks her head, like she’s listening to something. Then, eyes going wide in the darkness, she scrambles from the bed and starts tearing through their belongings, tossed carelessly about the small room.

“Communicator,” she mutters to herself. “Need a communicator.”

Finally, she finds her jacket, digs into one pocket, and pulls out the small disc-shaped device. Palming it in one hand, she slaps it on, and a few seconds later a very sleepy hologram of Finn yawns, blue and fuzzy in the air in front of her.

“Finn! I’m so glad you’re awake.”

“I wasn’t.” He smiles, and Rey winces a bit, the blue light reflecting on her own sleep-lined face.

“You need to send a shuttlecraft to these coordinates.” She rattles off the numbers, and Finn scrambles to find something to write with, nodding as he copies them down. “It’s urgent. Go right now, if you can.”

“ _I_ need to go?”

“Well.” Finally, she breaks into a smile. “You might want to when you hear what’s there.”

“And that is…?”

“Poe.” She laughs at Finn’s suddenly wide-awake expression. His face gets bigger as he brings his own communicator even closer, looking almost angry.

“Don’t fuck with me, Rey.”

“You know I wouldn’t. I felt him, Finn. He’s alive, he’s at those coordinates. A moon, I think. Somewhere. I don’t know the details. Protect yourself, take your people with you in an armored shuttlecraft with hyperspace capabilities.”

Halfway through her instructions—which Finn doesn’t really need; he knows how to handle himself, but Rey can’t help feeling protective of one of her dearest friends—Finn drops his device onto a desk and darts out of view, likely pulling on his uniform already. Rey calls out again.

“Hold on! You need to know something else!”

Finn comes back into view, hopping as he pulls his pants on one leg at a time, the hologram thankfully cutting off above his stomach.

“What is it, Rey?”

Rey’s smile fades just a touch. Confusion wrinkles her brow. The message had been clear to her, once she understood the language, but the _why_ of it eludes her. She will meditate on this as soon as she finishes speaking with Finn. For now, he’s growing impatient on the other end of the line, and Rey tilts her head, releasing a sigh.

“He’s not alone.”

*

Poe gathers his things, ready to depart for another hunting trip. Raen is curled up in Hux’s lap, Hux absentmindedly stroking his fur. Hux is thinking about Poe’s ripped shirt, and what he can possibly do to compensate for it even though he does like looking at Poe’s naked bicep. Poe hears him thinking it and smirks, and Hux rolls his eyes.

Raen’s ears suddenly perk up. His nose twitches, and then he scampers out of Hux’s lap, making for the back of the cave.

Hux and Poe exchange worried looks. The last time Raen had acted strangely, it had heralded the approach of a monster. They hardly have time to guess what might be upsetting him this time before they hear it.

Soft at first, but growing louder each second, is the distant whine of engines.

Poe drops his axe, staring open-mouthed at the cave entrance. He takes a step forward, obeying the instinct to run outside and stare up into the clouds, but something stops him. A sudden cold douse of fear spills down his spine and pools in his stomach. At first Poe thinks it’s his own fear—that he’s afraid after all of this time to be faced with the prospect of dealing with any being other than Hux—but then he realizes that the fear clawing at his insides is coming _from_ Hux.

Poe turns to look at Hux, and sees that his face has gone white.

“Those aren’t ours,” he says breathlessly, shaking his head. He stutters slightly. “Th-the First Order. It’s not one of ours, I’d recognize it. I don’t recognize those engines, _Poe_ —“

Poe nods, tongue darting out to part his lips. It must be the Resistance. It does sound like a familiar Republic craft, though Poe—specialist fighter pilot that he is—doesn’t have an ear for the variety of shuttlecraft engines that Hux does and he wouldn’t be able to say definitively that it _wasn’t_ First Order. But Hux is certain, and he’s breathing rapidly now, eyes unfocusing. Poe makes it to his side in two quick strides and goes to his knees in front of Hux as the engines grow louder, loud enough that he has to raise his voice slightly to hear himself speak. Dirt and pebbles skitter across the cave floor, pushed along by a gust of unnatural wind.

“Listen to me.” Poe takes Hux’s face in both hands, staring intently at him and speaking slowly. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Do you understand?”

Hux grabs his wrists and shakes his head.

“You can’t—“

“Yes, I _can._ We’re in this together, Hux, we still are. I’m not leaving you. Ever.”

“You’ll have no choice.” Hux starts to push him away, scrabbling at Poe’s chest and holding him at arm’s length while he swipes at his face with his other hand. He looks like he’s going to be sick, and Poe’s vision briefly doubles—he shakes his head, taking hold of himself.

“Hux.” The engines are so loud they must be just outside the cave, now. Hux is looking down and radiating a silent need for the space to process this, though Poe isn’t sure how far he’ll get on his own, his face a rictus of anguish like the galaxy is crumbling around him. Poe bites his lip, letting go of Hux and backing away. “I have to go meet them. I have to make sure they see us.”

He pauses, though. He won’t let this opportunity for rescue pass them by, not even if Hux is scared, not even if he doesn’t want it.

Will he?

Hux’s gaze is distant, something resolving in his expression, but he gives a terse nod, and Poe turns on his heel before he has to face the realization that if Hux had told him to hide in this cave with him until these interlopers had moved on, he very well might have.

Poe steps out of the cave, blinking into the midday light.

Wind is still kicking up from the engines of a large Republic shuttlecraft that lands several hundred feet from their cave, slightly off to the left. Poe squints against the dry snow and dirt swirling in their wake, clenching his hands into fists at his side. The craft doesn’t look new, but it doesn’t look worn-out and held together by spit and tape like so many of the Resistance craft had. There’s a strange symbol painted hastily on the side—something that reminds Poe of the Republic and the Resistance symbol, but slightly altered. The familiar orange phoenix-flare in the middle, on the backdrop of a yellow starburst, seems to burst forth from a hexagonal cage. For some reason, this sends a spike of fear through him that is entirely his own.

The engines cut out, and the ensuing hiss of hydraulics is very loud. The ramp begins to lower, and Poe’s heart rate trips into overdrive.

The last person in the galaxy Poe had expected to see steps down from the ramp, heavy boots crunching in the snow. He’s flanked by hard-eyed soldiers carrying blaster rifles at the ready, and he wears an unfamiliar uniform—stark white tunic, black pants, boots, and gloves—complete with a dark purple cape that swirls behind him, snapping in the wind. Poe’s feet are rooted to the spot, until the man’s eyes track over and land on him and finally, a spark of familiarity stirs within him.

Then he’s running, and shouting.

“ _FINN!_ ”

“Poe!”

“Finn!” Poe slams into his friend, wrapping both arms around his shoulders, heels coming up off the ground until just his toes touch. Finn hugs him back and, _fuck_ , Poe had missed this. He squeezes his eyes shut and slams his fist into Finn’s back a few times until he can force back the tears of joy and have a decent shot of getting words out.

“I missed you, buddy.” Poe slides back down and puts his hands on Finn’s upper arms, trying to take him in. “How did you find us? What’s been going on? Who are these guys?” He gestures at the soldiers with his chin. “And what are you _wearing?_ ”

“Well, first of all, I missed you too.” Finn wipes under one eye, blinking several times as he squeezes Poe’s shoulder. “Second, Rey found you. She can explain when we get back to Ruark. Third, a _lot_ has been going on Poe. A _lot._ And thir—wait, fourth? I think? These are—well. I’ll explain later.” He shoots an apologetic grin at the nearest soldier, who stares blankly ahead. “And finally, you didn’t think I’d show up in your old jacket, did you?”

“Hey.” Poe pokes his chest. “I liked that jacket, and I expect to get it back at some point. It was on loan.”

“And speaking of clothes, I don’t even want to talk about what you’re wearing.”

Poe looks down at himself, as if surprised to find himself in a thoroughly soiled First Order uniform missing a sleeve.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “It’s been…a _crazy_ month.” His smile fades and he finds it suddenly difficult to meet Finn’s gaze. “Listen, Finn, there’s—there’s someone else here, with me…”

“I know.” It takes Poe by surprise, such that he misses the hardening of Finn’s gaze. “He in that cave, too?”

Poe nods. He’s looking at his hand gripping Finn’s arm, trying to find the words to describe everything that has happened when his mind feels disjointed, lagging like an overloaded computer system. Therefore, he also misses the signal Finn gives to the soldiers, only whips his head up when he hears them moving as they suddenly begin to march on the cave.

“Wait,” Poe says slowly, still holding on to Finn’s arm as he starts turning to follow their progress. His brain is sluggish, not willing to register what’s happening. “What are they doing—Finn?”

“We know Hux is with you. Rey told us. She could sense you both.”

Finn’s hand is strong on Poe’s shoulder, and Poe has to wrench himself out of his grasp as he stumbles after the soldiers, who have already reached the mouth of the cave.

“ _Wait!”_ He cries. He skids to a halt, shoots a desperate look back at Finn, who walks steadily up behind him, cape swirling around his ankles. His expression is calm, but slightly confused, and Poe tears his eyes away and finishes scrambling towards the cave. He shoves past two soldiers blocking the entrance and then there are hands pinning his arms behind his back, and shouting—

_He’s_ the one shouting, because two more soldiers have kicked over the makeshift pot beside the fire and are hauling Hux to his feet. Poe wrenches against the two that are holding him back.

“Stop it! Finn, tell them to stop! _He’s hurt!”_

His heart pounds a dull _thud, thud, thud_ as he watches them trap Hux’s arms behind his back, watches the cuffs appear out of nowhere and clamp over his wrists. One of the soldiers starts roughly patting him down; they find the knife hidden up his sleeve and snap the straps of the scabbard as they strip it off of his arm, tossing it carelessly to the ground. Poe feels sick.

Poe thinks he hears Finn behind him, feels a gentle touch on his shoulder, but his eyes are only for Hux, who struggles to stand on his injured leg, drawing himself up as tall and proud as he can.

Hux meets his eyes.

Those eyes—green, Poe thinks hysterically, but a light grey-green like shards of clouded emerald, like mist rolling in over damp green pastures—those eyes burn into him as Hux’s cold, curling voice threads through his mind.

_What did you expect, Dameron?_

_Not this. Not this._

A soldier shoves Hux’s upper back with the flat of his palm, and Hux stumbles forward.

“No!”

Poe flails wildly, panic stripping him of reason.

“Poe!” Finn comes to stand in front of him, his eyes full of concern and confusion. “They’re not going to hurt you, just stand still and I’ll tell them to let you go. But you don’t seem—if you’re going to hurt yourself, I’ll have them restrain you again.”

“I’m not!” Poe finally succeeds in wrenching his arms free as the soldiers respond to Finn’s cautious nod. Poe’s chest is heaving. “You can’t—you can’t hurt him, I—“

_Stop._

_What?_ Poe blinks, locking eyes with Hux again, who is doing his best to hide the fact that he’s trembling.

_Don’t tell them anything about us. About the bond, about—anything we’ve done. Just stop._

It’s odd. Poe feels the command like a punch to his gut, like a thing alive.

_Hux—_

The soldiers start marching Hux towards the mouth of the cave. When his leg gives out, they haul him up by his arms.

“We’re not going to hurt him,” Finn is saying, speaking to Poe slowly, as one would to a very small child. “We’re taking him into custody.” He approaches Poe warily, urging him aside so that Hux can pass them. Poe’s eyes are only for Hux, his mouth working as he tries to come to terms with everything that is happening, too fast, it’s all too fast.

“C’mon, Poe. It’s time to go home.” Finn urges him towards the entrance, but Poe evades him, stepping back into the cave and looking wildly around.

“Wait, I—“

He can’t _leave._ They can’t be leaving. Poe looks at the fire, stomped out by Finn’s soldiers. At the overturned pot, at the string lights nailed into the wall. His breath skitters out, a memory of Hux with his profile illuminated by those soft lights tearing at Poe like a thing with teeth. His eyes water and his hands spasm, fingers itching to grab something, _anything_ —

Then, he remembers Raen.

Poe scurries to the back of the cave, where Raen has hidden himself beneath the discarded bits of stormtrooper armor Poe had worn on the _Steadfast._ He scoops the little animal to his chest, then shuffles slowly back towards Finn, dazed and compliant as his old friend steers him by the elbow. Poe casts one last look back at the cave, lips moving wordlessly. His eyes fall on the knife, and memories slam into him—Hux holding the knife to his throat, Hux skinning game for their dinners, Hux slicing open the monstrous creature’s throat. Poe knows how important that knife is to Hux. He was given it during a formative part of his young life, thought of it as something that could protect him from the dangers that surrounded him. The knife never dulls, no matter what it’s put through, and it sliced through the creature’s carapace when even blaster bolts had been mostly deflected.

Poe feels a warning in his chest. Like that night that he had saved the data stick from the fire, clutching it to him like something with real power to protect him—that knife. He can’t leave it here. Doing so would, somehow, mean the end of everything.

Poe scurries over and scoops it up, sticking knife and scabbard through a slot in his belt. Finn looks questioningly at him, but then just beckons for Poe to follow him, and Poe hesitates again.

Then he remembers that Hux is ahead of him, and he hurries out.

The wind slams into them, kicking up into a fierce gale. A few yards ahead, the soldiers are supporting almost all of Hux’s weight as they steer him into the shuttle, his boots dragging on the ramp. He wants to reach out to Hux, but something is stopping him, as if Hux had drawn the shutters on their bond and now Poe can only stand outside and bang on the window, begging to be let in.

He curls around Raen, a fierce disappointment clawing at him.

This is what they’ve been waiting for. This is _rescue._ It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Raen trembles in his arms and Poe shushes him as his feet carry him towards the shuttle.

“It’s alright, buddy, it’s—it’s alright.” He casts a glance aside to make sure Finn isn’t listening, and whispers, “Finn is our friend. We can trust him, okay? We’ll get this sorted out.”

He wants to believe it.

They climb the ramp, and when Poe’s eyes adjust to the interior lighting he immediately seeks out Hux. Hux is strapped into a jump seat, his hands cuffed in front of him now, splinted leg stuck out awkwardly. Even from this distance, Poe can tell that he’s shaking violently.

_Hux?_

The word bounces back at Poe, and he nearly falls to his knees as it hits him that Hux has done something to their bond.

Finn’s hand lands on his shoulder and Poe turns to him, keeping his head down to avoid the eyes of those soldiers. He doesn’t trust them, doesn’t understand why Finn is so comfortable around them, why his friend—who he’d run missions with against the very sort of soldiers these people appear to be—would be so complacent in the face of cruelty. This is _cruel_ , what they’re doing to Hux, isn’t it?

“He’s—I think he’s in shock,” Poe says, clutching Raen to his chest, and Finn looks at him with open pity.

“Poe, I think _you_ might be in shock. He’s fine.” Finn waves a brusque hand in Hux’s direction, then shoots him an imperious gaze. There’s a satisfaction in Finn’s eyes, a smugness that Poe doesn’t like. “Aren’t you?”

Hux says nothing. He stares straight ahead, lips twitching into an aborted snarl.

“Sit down, Poe.” Finn guides him into a jump seat—far, so far away from Hux—and helps Poe buckle in when it becomes evident that Poe’s hands are shaking too much to do it himself. “It’s just a short hop to Ruark, I’ll be right here the whole time, and then we’ll get you to a doctor. Okay?”

Finn’s open concern for him goes a little way to calming the rabbit-fast beat of Poe’s heart. This _is_ Finn, this is Finn. Poe tells it to himself again and again. He looks different, acts—a little different, but it’s the same man, this is his friend and he can trust him. He nods, licking lips that have gone dry and cracked in the wind, and flicks his gaze once more to Hux.

“And him. Right?”

“Right. All prisoners of the Third Republic receive medical care.” Finn rolls his eyes, and Poe has to swallow down a hysterical laugh. None of this is funny. This might be the worst day of his adult life.

“The, ah—the Third Republic?”

Finn breaks into a wide smile.

“Yeah, Poe.” He turns his head to bark a few orders to the pilot, and then the ramp starts lifting up, and Poe cranes his neck to get a last look at the barren windswept plains and towering icy cliffsthat have come to feel like home. Finn’s voice is distant, as the ramp cuts off Poe’s view of the moon and his stomach twists up until he’s sure he’s about to be sick all over Finn’s shiny new boots.

“The war’s over, Poe. We did it. We won.”

*

As soon as he hears the engines, he knows it’s over.

He watches Poe drop the axe, notes the way his expression changes to one of pure shock. For a second, Hux allows himself to imagine that it’s a First Order ship—Mitaka finally coming to their rescue. He could whisk Poe away, keep him safe in his quarters until he finds some way to untangle the mess they’ve found themselves in, finds some way to wrap up the loose ends of his old life before taking Poe, Millicent, and as many credits as he can squirrel away and jettisoning off in a hyperspace-capable shuttle and bidding the greater galaxy a not-so-fond farewell.

Then the pitch of the engines becomes clearer, and Hux one by one rules out possible models until he’s left with the stark conclusion that Poe is the one being rescued, and that that future will never materialize, and that it’s over.

Everything is over.

Panic hits him. Poe drops to his knees and starts making empty promises, and all Hux can do is stare into his eyes and think _this is it._ They had spent their last night in each other’s arms. That quick peck on the cheek Poe had given him, about to depart on his daily hunting trip—that had been their last kiss. Poe, kneeling before him now, staring at him with those large, dark, gorgeous eyes—

When would they turn bitter, distant and cold? How long would Poe be among his friends before he became ashamed of his actions? Would Hux even get to see it, or would they execute him here, on this moon? There’s something attractive about that. His blood spilling out, dark on the white plain. Never leaving the place where he’d had the chance to meet his mother again, the place where he’d had the chance to have—well, whatever it was he’d had, so briefly, too briefly, with Poe.

Poe runs out of the cave, and Hux looks after him. There’s nothing he can do. He can hear the engines powering down, a terrible silence taking its place, and he’s merely waiting, in suspense, for the Resistance or the Republic or whoever is fucking out there to hand down his sentence, and—

His eyes fall to the blaster rifles, waiting in a row propped up against the cave wall, the nearest of them within easy reach.

When Hux had been very young—around the time everything had happened with Albrenn, though he can’t remember if it was before or after—his father had taken him aside. He had bent down and opened his mouth and pointed to a tooth near the back. Hux had thought about taking the opportunity to slam the heel of his hand up, shattering his father’s nose, a thought that came with a rush of pleasure and fear even as he let it go, knowing he didn’t have the courage. Not yet.

Hux had peered at the tooth instead, noting it had a dark blue spot on the crown. His father had straightened, and told him that the tooth was the mark of a true Imperial. It was a suicide capsule. Brendol had told him that the Empire was greater than any one life, and that he was prepared to use it if circumstances were so dire that his cause would be better served by his own death. That Hux should prepare himself for the same.

Hux had never believed him, not really. But he thinks about the tooth now, about how his father had implanted one in each of the Commandant’s Cadets, about how Hux doesn’t have the choice to use his own simply because a random stroke of fate had knocked the tooth loose when Snoke slammed him to the floor, and things had gotten too hectic after that for Hux to have it replaced. Hux wonders now if Brendol had died with the tooth still in place. He likes the idea of it, that Brendol had been too cowardly to use it even when he knew he was dying in a far more painful manner.

Hux shakes his head.

His hand trembles as his fingers brush the barrel of the nearest rifle. He thinks about the knife in his sleeve. He thinks about allowing whoever is in that shuttle to kill him, or take him prisoner and execute him later, or if he will live out his days in a cell, and how he has no desire to roll the dice and see which of those hated options lands face up. Thinks about how good it would feel, for the brief time he has left to feel, to know that he took that satisfaction from them—they would not get to parade the Starkiller before their assembled masses, would not get to decide his fate if he takes it into his own hands, master of this last choice, all that is left to him.

But then, he thinks about Poe.

He brings his hand back to his lap, looking down at it.

No matter what happens now, Poe will suffer. There’s little Hux can do to ameliorate it, very little that is within his power. It would be so much easier for Poe if he didn’t care for Hux, if they didn’t have this fucking bond that lets Poe feel all the things Hux feels—

Hux’s heart nearly stops.

Nevermind the sudden spike of terror at the thought of ending his life, and what that might feel like to Poe. Gone is that option from his mind, instead replaced by a series of rapid thoughts falling like blow after blow. What if they interrogate him, before his execution? What if they _torture_ him? What if Poe has to feel his pain, his desperation, the way that prolonged torture grinds down a soul until it’s dry dust? What if Poe does something stupid to try to help him? There is no galaxy in which Poe would _not_ do something stupid, to try to help him.

Hux comes to the only conclusion he possibly can from the information at hand.

Their bond is a danger to Poe.

Hux’s priority solidifies with a sudden clarity, like seeing an injured Poe standing before that monster and knowing exactly what he must do. There is no hope for him, of course, but if there is any hope of saving Poe from further harm, it lies in doing something to this bond. Things cannot stand as they are, as much as Hux has come to take reluctant comfort in the feeling of Poe with him even when they are apart.

The fact remains: their bond is a danger to Poe.

Hux doesn’t think he can break it, but maybe—maybe—

The soldiers march into the cave as he’s formulating his plan. He nearly laughs out loud when he sees them.

It’s immediately obvious that they’re stormtroopers. Or, they used to be, and now they’re some sort of hybrid Republic mongrels, their First Order regulation haircuts and formation giving them away even if the armor that they wear has changed. Helmet or no helmet, a stormtrooper will always be a stormtrooper. Unless they’ve thrown off their conditioning, like the traitor, who walks in after them wearing some kind of ridiculous getup.

Hux lets them haul him to his feet, refusing to show the slightest recognition of the fire that shoots through his leg as he’s forced to put weight on it.

Poe comes tumbling into the cave then, and Hux feels an awful sort of pressure forming in his chest when he sees the anguish on Poe’s face, hears him shouting and struggling to reach him. This can’t go on. It’s far too late for Hux to do anything about his own happiness, but Poe belongs in the world to which they will soon be ushered. He has a future there, with only Hux standing in his way. He’s being restrained for his own safety, not because he is a criminal in their eyes. Poe looks to him and his panic slices into Hux, so Hux has to steel himself not to squeeze his eyes shut against the pain.

He doesn’t know what Poe wants from him. A bitterness rises up, Hux’s mind swirling with those empty promises of mere moments ago, and he can’t help but fling one last barb at Poe—proving, of course, that he had never deserved someone like Poe in the first place.

_What did you expect, Dameron?_

_Not this. Not this._

Hux keeps himself from saying, _I know._

Poe is still making noise, growing more frantic by the second, and Hux shoots him a tired look.

_Stop._

_What?_

_Don’t tell them anything about us. About the bond, about—anything we’ve done. Just stop._

Hux lays this command at Poe’s feet. He sends it through their bond—another thing he had not known he could do until it was done, that feels like a similar feat to sending healing energy through his arms and into Poe. He feels the words taking shape in Poe’s mind, feels the weight of them, sees the recognition in Poe’s eyes.

It should be hard to concentrate on what he has to do with everything going on around him, with the feel of hard hands on his arms and hard stares at his back and one of the troopers starting in, so smugly, to tell him that he, Armitage Hux, is hereby under arrest for the destruction of the Hosnian system and crimes against the galaxy, by order of the Third Republic—

But Hux is used to partitioning his mind.

When their bond had first shown itself, Hux had tried to throw Poe out of his mind, had tried to bring up walls with Poe on the other side. It hadn’t worked, and he hadn’t known why, hadn’t understood the shape of the thing between them. After weeks of slowly learning the limitations of the bond, of finding hidden avenues of power within it, Hux has learned a few things. Enough to block out the sounds of the others in the cave with them as he tries to form his will into a knife slicing at the thing shimmering between their souls.

As he had almost expected, the weapon he’d forged—made of the same stuff as the bond—dissolves like ice meeting boiling water.

Despite himself, despite the urgency with which he believes the bond must be broken, for Poe’s sake—Hux is relieved.

He tries something else.

In his former life, when he had felt the brush of Ren’s mind against his own, Hux had imagined diverting his attention. He would bring up some random thought, that he hoped would be enticing enough to channel Ren’s energies towards it, thereby shielding his true intentions. It had been exhausting, and he isn’t sure he can do the same for Poe, but—

When he’d healed Poe, he’d imagined a river coursing down a channel dug into the earth.

Hux is a practical man, and part of him wants to sneer and roll his eyes at these flights of fancy. Except that they have proven themselves to hold true power, these images that give shape to the bond flowing between them. Perhaps, if he only thinks of their bond as water, he can move it to suit his purposes again.

Hux feels for the flow of energy between them with grasping mental fingers. He begins to dig.

First a deep trench, then channels flowing away from him. Their bond pulses between them, balks against the new direction—but Hux is patient, Hux can do this, he had done it a thousand times on that Star Destroyer when there had been no bond but rather the singular black spike of energy that was Kylo Ren. Poe’s access to his mind is narrowed from a torrent to a stream to the barest trickle, and there are places now where Hux can bring up those walls, finally, walls between himself and Poe that he would have given anything to have had just a few weeks ago but that now feel like lopping off a limb. Hux can’t seal it off completely—there is some warning that rises up within him at the thought, like a small animal’s instinct to continue on past a dark cave without waking what lies slumbering within. To seal it off might mean disaster, not just for himself but for Poe.

It still feels like he’s building his own tomb. Things are growing quiet, growing still. It’s almost like Starkiller, this construction that will seal his fate. No matter what happens, Hux will always carry with him the knowledge that he is the architect of this awful fortress cutting him off from the only good thing he’s ever known. Caging the bond like it’s a screaming animal, like it’s a beam of killing light—

Hux finds he’s sweating and weak-kneed when the effort is complete.

He tests it out, and finds to his horror and satisfaction that he was successful.

Poe’s feelings are no longer readily available to him. He doesn’t think Poe has noticed yet, such is the extent of his current panic. Hux feels like he could fall down and die, or simply go away to some place far from the body that would march on without him. It’s all that he can do to keep his head up when the troopers push him forward, past Poe, who he can’t look at now for fear that he might crumble.

The rest of it is a blur. His leg giving out, having to be hauled upright by these troopers who Hux knows take a sick satisfaction in his state of weakness—he knows, because in their place he would too—being dragged up the ramp and into the shuttle and strapped into a jump seat. His mind is reeling, breath coming too quickly, vision going grey at the edges. He clings to consciousness by the sheer will not to give his captors the satisfaction of seeing him faint. It’s a near thing, and gets harder when the shuttle lurches and takes off and Hux knows he is at last being borne away from this place where he had found solace and comfort.

_Goodbye, mother_ , he thinks, half-mad with despair. He doesn’t expect a response, but suddenly it’s as if a cool wind brushes against his mind. He rears back in the seat, eyes wide and pupils shrunk into pinpricks, the whites of his eyes prominent as his nostrils flare.

_Goodbye, my love._ Her voice is breathy, and echoes as if against those tall white cliffs he’ll never see again. He waits for more, wondering if it was only his own imagination finally shredding the last bits of sanity he’s managed to cling to through this ordeal. He hears nothing more. He supposes he’ll never know.

Hux falls back against the wall of the shuttle, feeling the thrum of the engines through the hull. He closes his eyes.

He can feel Poe trying to force his way in. It’s like a sad little scrabbling at the walls of his fortress, the one he doesn’t want to be locked in but that it’s imperative for Poe’s safety he never escape. A monster, caged at long last.

There’s more to come, of course, but Hux knows that here is where it all truly ends for him. Everything else is just tying a ribbon on the fate that is sealed now, here, in a small repurposed Republic shuttlecraft jetting off from a land that had appeared barren at first, then proved itself so full of life. It had been a lovely reprieve, he thinks—those few weeks spent in dizzying companionship with Poe. He hadn’t known it then, but he’d certainly been incurring a debt that is now to be paid. Hux was never born to have such things—complacency, companionship, comfort. Something, even, a little bit like love.

He’d taken it, somehow—wrested it, screaming, from a galaxy that had never seen fit to bestow upon him anything like the quiet moments laying in Noém’s lap, the feel of Poe’s fingers in his hair—and now he’ll pay for it. He can’t even muster up the energy to begrudge the fact. He’d gladly give it all again, he thinks. In the end, a few weeks of what he’d had with Poe had been worth everything he has to give.

And now, the reckoning.

#  End Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes about part three:
> 
> -There will be angst. I’m sorry, it’s a rough ride, but I promise the softest landing ever. I’ll make it worth it, but it’s gonna hurt for a little while. <3  
> -I’m a multi shipper so tbh everyone has chemistry with everyone BUT the official ships in part three are gingerpilot, reylo, and finnrose. The background ships are very much background but both will be mentioned multiple times and are important to the themes of the story.  
> -Finn is not an antagonist, not even a minor one, despite how he comes off in this chapter. He and the others have grown a lot off-screen and Finn plays a huge role in part three. He is not, however, Force-sensitive. I do love Jedi Finn, that’s just not part of this story.
> 
> Other things to look forward(?) to:
> 
> -Talking. A lot of talking. Everyone talks to everyone. Honestly, it’s a mess.  
> -Mean Republic politicians  
> -Finn large and in charge  
> -Defected stormtroopers  
> -Sad prison sex  
> -Love confessions  
> -At least one space battle  
> -Badass Hux makes a reappearance  
> -Everyone is redeemed and loved, makes it out, and comes home. <3


	23. Chapter 23

#  Part Three: Fulcrum

Ruark is a planet in the Mid Rim. In fact, it lies as close to the middle of the Mid Rim as could reasonably be expected for a system that had come to be there by chance, rather than design. It’s a very middling place, overall: not terribly wealthy, but no where near poor; featuring no one dominant biome but rather a range of familiar landscapes such as sweeping green plains, towering snow-capped mountains, rich farmlands and bustling cities. It is subject to mild, inoffensive seasons, and it is home to the usual milieu of human and non-human sentients.

It had been a Republic planet for all the thousands of years of its remembered history, somehow staying out of the way of the broader strokes of the wars that have flexed and contorted the fabric of the galactic stage. When the Hosnian system was destroyed, Ruark had quietly acquiesced to the new reigning government, paid its taxes and stood down its meager navy in tepid welcome of the First Order’s rule. If the planet as a whole had a motto it could reasonably be assumed to be something like “live to fight another day”. Though there were those, of course, who groused that the day for fighting never did seem to come, but they tended to be in the minority.

It was precisely this lack of fervent opposition to the First Order that made Ruark an attractive option for the seat of the Third Republic. Because, as Finn starts to tell Poe on their way down to the planet, after their shuttlecraft blinks out of hyperspace above the blue and green marble touched by swirling white clouds, the Third Republic is not so much a rebirth of the New Republic as it is a curious assemblage of three interlocking powers.

“So, there’s no new Senate yet,” Finn is saying, as Poe plasters himself to the window, watching with wide eyes as their transport flies over verdant hills towards a city composed of tan buildings, tall and spire-like, some with curious bulbs towards the top. “But that’s in the works. Right now all decisions go through Leia, me, and this guy you’ll meet called Undeb-Seg.”

Poe can hardly get a handle on what Finn is saying. Between filling his eyes with all the color and variation he had missed while stranded on that featureless white moon, and his constant attempts to reach Hux through their bond—all to no avail—he is close to overload. Still, he latches on to that last bit readily enough. Finn, part of a triumvirate of decision-makers of the new galactic order?

“So you’re—“ Poe doesn’t quite manage a smile, too aware of the way Hux is sitting rigidly a few seats over from him, to all appearances deaf to their conversation. “You’re a big deal.”

This is good. This means that Hux won’t be a prisoner for long. Because if Finn is this important—and of course Finn is a good man who is Poe’s dearest friend and will surely listen to Poe—

“Yeah, I guess.” Finn looks pleased, and a little embarrassed. He fingers the edge of his purple cloak. “It wasn’t my idea, yaknow. But after the rebellion—“

“Sorry, back up. The what?”

“General Finn,” one of the soldiers interrupts them, coming to stand smartly at attention. “We’ll be arriving in Coda City in about five minutes.”

"Thanks, Latch.” Finn winks, but the soldier just nods and does a sharp about-face, going back to her position near the pilot. Finn sighs.

Poe starts to put the pieces together.

“Are they stormtroopers?” He doesn’t quite whisper it. Something about the hard-eyed soldiers still has him on edge—probably just the memory of them putting Hux in binders, a sight he’ll likely never forget. Still, Poe has a hard time wrapping his brain around the fact that winning the war, according to Finn, meant giving any sort of power to the very forces they had been fighting all along.

Then again, Finn had been a stormtrooper once. If one of them could turn, Poe supposes there’s no reason they all couldn’t.

“They were.” Finn sits up a bit straighter, and Poe can see the pride in his posture, hear it in his steady voice. “After Kylo Ren abdicated, I led a stormtrooper rebellion. I knew they had it in them. They all decided to join the new government. They took off their helmets—they wanted to be _people,_ individuals, and I promised them they would be.” His eyes turn soft, a bit vulnerable. “Not all of them have chosen new names yet, but after some of them heard about how I got _my_ name—well. Latch over there used to be LH-2476.”

“Latch,” Poe repeats, feeling a softer emotion taking hold of him at the memory of him and Finn in the TIE fighter, Poe refusing to call him by a number and saying the first name-sounding-thing that came to mind. His chest loosens just a touch, the emotion like something warm finally taking root in frozen soil. “Finn—” Poe swallows down his anxieties to give his friend an earnest and well-deserved smile. “That’s incredible.”

Finn gives him a tight smile.

“The rebellion wasn’t bloodless, but pretty close. Turns out that a lot of the stormtroopers had gotten around their conditioning when it came to forming bonds amongst themselves. In the end, their loyalties were to each other, not the First Order.” The gaze he shoots over at Hux is hard to miss, but Poe squeezes his eyes briefly shut to ignore it, ignore it as best he can in this moment, like he’s trying to split himself into two people—one Poe to hold all his memories and feelings for Hux, another Poe for Finn. “I gave them the choice to put down their arms _or_ take them up in service to the new government. They decided amongst themselves to form the New Galactic Guard, and they—well, they wanted me to lead it.”

Poe nods.

“Makes sense to me. You inspired them, Finn. They trust you.”

“Yeah. It hasn’t been easy and there’s still a lot of—weird, cultural things to get over.”

Poe can’t help it. His gaze goes to Hux.

“I can imagine.” He swallows nervously. “And what, ah—what about the rest of the First Order? The officers?”

“They’re…mostly in prison blocks, here in the city.” Finn’s posture is uncertain, his gaze seeking as it moves around the shuttle. “They surrendered, but it was too much of a security issue to bring them all onboard at once. We’re slowly putting them through a sort of, uh—processing stage, I guess.” He scratches the back of his head, looking displeased. Poe’s stomach twists up into new knots.

He doesn’t want to throw a wrench into their conversation—because it feels so karking _good_ to talk to Finn like this, to feel the old flame of justice and righteousness that he’d always felt when fighting for the Resistance—but he can’t keep a lid on that other Poe any longer, the one that stalks, rangy and mad inside of him at the sight of Hux in restraints.

“Finn, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” he says, quiet and earnest. “It’s important, but I—I’d just rather talk in private, if that’s okay?”

“Sure.” Finn frowns. “There’s a doctor waiting in Coda City to see about treating the two of you. I have some things to take care of but it should be quick, I’ll probably be free again by the time your medical exam is over. We can talk after that?”

“I’m fine, really.” Poe squirms in his seat a bit, anxiety clenching his heart in a vice at the thought of what might happen to Hux as soon as their transport lands. “But…okay. Yeah, that sounds good. Um. I need to know what you guys are gonna do with him.”

“Who?” Finn is still frowning, and Poe is certain that Finn thinks he lost his mind on that moon. Maybe he did.

“ _Hux_ ,” Poe hisses. As if there’s anyone else he could possibly be talking about.

“Okay! Sorry, just asking.” Finn shrugs. “He’ll be given a medical exam, too—“

“His leg is broken. Badly.”

“Okay. Well, then he’ll probably stay in medical for a few days until that’s sorted out.”

Poe lets out a breath. A few days in medical sounds better than—

“After that, he’ll be moved to a cell we have prepared for him.”

_That’s_ where Poe has some difficulty.

“Finn, he’s—does he have to go to a cell?”

“Of course he does. He’s a prisoner.” Finn says it like it’s the most logical thing in the world, and Poe can’t wrap his mind around the fact that it probably _is._ Before he can object, the transport jolts. Poe casts a glance out the window and sees that the rolling landscape has been eclipsed by the dark walls of a large hangar into which they have now docked. Then everything starts _happening_ again—Finn stands up, starts talking to the soldiers, Hux is hauled up from his seat and Poe has to scramble to unbuckle himself.

Things never happened this quickly back on their moon. It’s all too much, too big, too fast, too wrong.

The ramp lowers and as Poe takes a tentative step towards it, Raen starts whimpering and clawing at his chest. He pauses to shush the little creature, sees how Finn waits for him with a fond look. Raen seems to be trying to crawl inside of Poe’s shirt, so he unbuttons the collar enough to stuff the little guy inside, then buttons it back up around Raen’s neck. The top of Raen’s head is pressed to Poe’s chin, his large ears brushing either side of his jaw, and Poe cups Raen’s body to his chest through the fabric of his shirt.

“Alright, buddy,” he says quietly, shooting a sad look at Hux, who is ignoring him, unreachable through their bond. “Let’s do this, I guess.”

Stepping off the ramp is a lot harder than it should be.

The hangar is nothing compared to that of a Star Destroyer’s—only about the size of the _Raddus_ ’s—but something about it seems ominous. The only thing that keeps Poe going is the fact that the soldiers are half-marching, half-carrying Hux ahead of him. Poe stumbles along after, like he’s tied to him by a string. His heart beats wildly in his chest, and he can’t hear Finn over the pounding of blood in his ears. He looks around, taking in the myriad different ships that have made this hangar their temporary home, everything from troop transports to single-person fighters on display, much like the cobbled-together, ragtag complement of a Resistance ship.

But they all have that strange new symbol painted on them, and when Poe happens to catch the gaze of those who are working on the ships or unloading crates or simply hanging about and chatting, he quickly averts his eyes. He doesn’t know any of them. He doesn’t know what they want with him, what they want with _Hux._

_Please tell me you’re okay,_ he tries to send to Hux. The words bounce back at him, and the only thing keeping him standing is the thought that the bond is still definitely _there._ It isn’t like just thinking the thoughts in his head. They have more of a life than that, more substance than the thoughts that are just him talking to himself, it’s just that they can’t reach Hux, and that’s because somehow Hux is holding him at arm’s length.

It dawns on him, in a burst of adrenaline that makes him want to crawl out of his own skin, that Poe hates this place.

He shouldn’t hate it. This is what he’s been waiting for. This is everything he’d ever dared to dream of—the war over, the Resistance and Republic ideals winning out in the end. But everything feels off, foreign, completely out of his control. He realizes abruptly that he has no say in his own fate, let alone Hux’s, and that he’d never imagined that to be the case any of the times he let himself think about what might happen when they were rescued. It’s only been a little over a month, but so much has changed that Poe thinks he’ll never catch up. He has the sinking feeling that he has no place here, any more than Hux does, and he suddenly misses that moon, fiercely, desperately—thinks he’d trade everything to get it back, the cave and the fire and the intimacy he’d found with Hux that he’d never had with anyone else before. He’d had lovers, even people that he loved and trusted with his life, but never anyone he felt he could talk to about the things he’d talked about with Hux.

The thought that he might never have that again—that this is all somehow insurmountable, that at any moment Hux could disappear behind a door and Poe would never see him again—

Poe can’t breathe.

Finn grabs Poe’s arm and says something, but Poe shakes his head, unable to concentrate on the words when there are so many people talking around him, their voices rising up and overlapping. Since when have people _talked_ so much? Poe wants to press his hands over his ears.

“Sorry, Finn,” his voice is shaky. “I can’t—it’s just a lot—“

Voices, everywhere, and none of them belong to Hux.

Poe doesn’t remember leaving the hangar. One second he’s stopped in the middle of a mass of life, of lives that had gone on without him while he’d done nothing but hidden in a cave and leaned on Hux, his entire world the brush of pale skin under his fingertips. The next he’s in some dark, mercifully quiet alcove in a long, carpeted corridor that sweeps in a broad curve in either direction. He knows he’s breathing too quickly, and he feels like his knees are going to give out at any moment.

“Poe? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah.” He nods, tries to take a deep breath, but his chest is tight with panic.

“Okay. It’s okay. We’re close to the medical wing, it’s just a little bit down the corridor. Can you walk?”

“Where’s Hux?” Poe grabs at Finn’s uniform, at his shirtfront, eyes wild as he realizes the corridor is empty around him. “Where did they take him?”

“He’s in medical. We’ll—“ Finn visibly has to force out the words, “We’ll go find him, okay? Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Honestly, I imagined you’d be sick of the guy by now, but—sure. Whatever you want. C’mon, you can lean on me if you have to.”

Poe positively cowers against Finn, who gives the few people they pass in the quiet corridor a stern look to warn them away. Meanwhile, he starts rambling to Poe, and Poe is able to cobble together the distant thought that Finn wears this new authority well, without letting it erase the man he’d been before.

“I’m sorry, Poe. I should’ve realized—I was just so happy when Rey said you were alive, but of course I have no idea what you’ve been through and I should’ve known this would be a lot. You just need to rest. Focus on getting better, maybe eat a vegetable or two. Don’t worry about all this government stuff, okay? It’s all in good hands.”

“Um. Okay.” Poe doesn’t know how he feels about that. This is all starting to feel like a very odd dream.

Finn stops them beside a doorway and presses a code into a screen in the wall. The doors slide open soundlessly, and Poe has the wherewithal to notice that this place is far nicer than any Resistance base. Wealth is evident everywhere, from the immaculate carpeting to the soundproofed walls to the understated efficiency of its design. The medical wing is no exception. Crisp white floors, softer off-white walls, the quiet beep and hiss of machinery, and a puff of cool, sterile-smelling air all meet Poe as he and Finn cross the threshold.

The tight grip of panic finally loosens its hold as Poe catches sight of Hux. He’s sitting on a metal table, looking wholly out of place with his greatcoat removed. His torn and dirtied tunic and one pants leg shredded from the knee down, dirt-streaked face and limp, greasy hair is anathema to the gleaming surroundings. The soldiers flanking him are young, and Poe recognizes one of them—Latch, from the transport. They have stoic expressions and buzz-cut hair, and wear close-fitting, matte grey armor with the symbol of the Third Republic on their upper arms, and a blaster at each hip.

Soon, Poe is seated on a similar exam table, being tended to in turn by the same doctor. It’s not Kalonia, but some woman Poe has never met before named Avonda. She finishes up her initial examination of Hux, and moves on to Poe, and things feel normal for just a brief moment until Poe thinks about the soldiers standing on either side of Hux. Hux, with his lanky frame worn down by starvation rations, and his broken leg. Hux, who clearly presents no real threat to anyone in the room, and won’t be going anywhere very far under his own power. The fact that soldiers are still assigned to him sends a clear message—Hux has minders now. He isn’t like Poe, free to walk the corridors with his friend. He isn’t free. Poe’s heart plummets, dragged down by guilt and grief.

_Can you hear me at all?_ He tries, while the doctor shines a light into his eye. He thinks he sees Hux flinch, but other than that there’s nothing. _This is torture, Hux. Please. I don’t know why you’re doing this. You have to let me tell them about us, so I can help you._

Maybe if he throws himself against Hux’s mental fortifications again and again, something will break and let him through. He has to try. His heart is breaking at the sight of Hux, sitting on a table within a mere dozen feet or so but nonetheless impossibly far away, face paler than usual and frozen into an expression that is so far from what Poe remembers of Hux in that cave that he has to remind himself that Hux used to look like this.

He looks disgusted by his surroundings. His gaze slides dismissively over the soldiers and the doctor, refusing to acknowledge them any more than he is forced to when they bark an order at him. It almost makes it look like they’re the ones serving him—and Poe has to be a little bit impressed by Hux’s easy arrogance, which he knows is born of practice. It’s a carefully crafted skill but Poe wishes Hux wouldn’t employ it here, now, because he looks so much like the man who would destroy the Hosnian system without remorse and nothing like the man who would kiss Poe senseless or murmur quiet, comforting words or worry about him being cold. And certainly, nothing like the man who would give up his life to save Poe, without prompting, without recognition, with nothing more than the knowledge that Poe would live even if he would die.

That’s the man, Poe knows, that needs to show himself if they’re ever going to be able to get out of this mess. But if this is some sort of defense mechanism—and almost certainly it is—and he won’t let Poe reach him, convince him that it’s safer in the long run to let himself be vulnerable around these strange Republic faces—

Poe sighs, eyes downcast.

Listlessly, he follows the doctor’s orders to take Raen out of his shirt so she can listen to his heartbeat. The exam goes on for a long time, with the doctor spending a quiet moment examining the long scar on Poe’s arm. She seems puzzled by it, but must deem it unimportant enough not to burden Poe—who is clearly not all there—with questions.

She picks up his hand, and Poe blinks down at the dirty bandage. He’d almost forgotten about the knife wound, and winces as she unwraps it, ready to see an ugly wound—but Hux’s dressing had done its job, and as she peels back the bandages he sees a clean cut well on its way to being healed. The doctor applies some bacta and rewraps it; she also cleans the cut on his forehead, and applies a bit of bacta there too, with a little patch to cover it.

“You have no major injuries,” she tells him at last, as if he isn’t perfectly aware of that. “No signs of concussion. You’re malnourished. Have you had problems with anxiety in the past?”

“No,” Poe says flatly. The doctor shrugs.

“Well, in any case. I’m sending you to your quarters. You need rest, which you’ll get, and several nutritious meals, which will be provided for you. Anxiety medication is also available, at your request. It might help with your current symptoms. General, I can have an orderly escort him to his quarters, unless—“

“I’ll do it,” Finn pipes up cheerfully, and Poe blinks.

“Thought you had some big meeting or something,” he mumbles.

“You’re more important.” Finn puts a hand on his shoulder, and Poe closes his eyes, throat tight with the odd sensation of pleasure at his friend’s affection battling with bitterness that it’s only extended to him. He was such a fool, to think the Resistance would welcome Hux with open arms.

Well, maybe the Resistance would. But this is not the Resistance any longer.

“And Hux?” He’s getting tired of saying it; tired of reminding Finn that Hux is important to him, tired of everyone acting surprised that Hux isn’t just another afterthought to Poe, like he clearly is to everyone else.

“General Hux—“

“AH-136,” Latch snaps. The doctor gives her a steady look.

“I’m not calling him that.”

“Just Hux, then,” Finn says, looking at Hux for confirmation, and Poe can tell that Hux is on the edge of a caustic laugh. He bites it back, gives a single nod, and goes back to staring blankly at the far wall.

“Hux will remain here for observation and to assess treatment options for his leg. It was a bad break, and will need to be reset. Likely under general anesthesia, which I’m not sure he can withstand at the moment. I’d like to get a good meal in him before we proceed.”

“Satisfied?” Finn asks Poe.

“Can I talk to him?” Poe looks desperately from Finn to the doctor. “Alone?”

“That’s…not possible, Poe. I’m sorry.” Finn’s voice is firm.

“I don’t want to speak with him.”

Heads snap up as Hux utters the first words since being picked up on the moon.

Poe’s mouth falls open.

“Hux…”

“I’ve had more than enough of his incessant jabber.” Hux’s voice is imperious, commanding, and cruel. General Hux, indeed. “Get him out of my sight.”

“You don’t get to—“ Latch starts, voice raised in fury and hand twitching towards the blaster on her hip.

“Stand down,” Finn snaps at her, and she complies immediately. As for Hux—Finn merely gives him a scathing look, before putting his hands on Poe’s arms and steering him gently from the room. “C’mon, just forget about him. He’s not worth your time.”

Poe closes his eyes and concentrates.

_Please don’t do this._ He throws everything he has into the words. He strives for the sort of concentration he used to have in his X-wing, when everything but the target would disappear, when he would understand, fundamentally, how he and everything around him was situated, suspended in the vacuum without having to see it with his own eyes. He can almost grasp the shape of their bond, then—still stretched between them, but somehow his words are diverted before they ever reach Hux.

He won’t be able to break through. His shoulders slump, briefly, before he rouses himself with a little internal shake. _Find another way_ , he tells himself, _you’ve run harder missions than this before._

If one path is blocked, by walls or by cannon fire, you find another way through. Or you make one.

“I’ll be back,” he tells Hux, who isn’t looking at him. It’s a promise, a bold declaration challenging anyone in the room to deny him this. No one contradicts him, and Poe nods again. “I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

Before anyone can say no to that, Poe tears himself away.

Finn takes him down the corridor to his room, and Poe counts the steps. He’s not going to rely on anyone else to help him find his way back to Hux. He can already see that it will be a challenge on all fronts: Finn and his soldiers and the Third Republic and even Hux all trying to keep them apart. Poe won’t let it happen. He’d made a promise not to abandon Hux—as if he even could, as if he’d ever want to.

Poe only notices when they stop in front of the door, presumably to his room, that Finn has not said a word since they left medical. Poe holds Raen close against his chest and casts a glance aside at his friend, taking in the tight jaw and the lips pulling down into a frown. Finn reaches out to open the door and Poe puts a hand on his upper arm.

“Hey,” he begins, but Finn shrugs him off as the door whisks open.

“So this is it.” He can hear Finn trying to sound cheerful, but his tone is sour with what might be disappointment, and Poe thinks wryly, _join the club._ “I’ll leave you to get some rest. We’ll have your next few meals delivered, if you need anything there’s a comm on the desk.” He turns to go.

“Wait!” Poe grabs for his arm again, and this time Finn doesn’t pull away, but his eyes are still flat and annoyed. Poe musters up all the sincerity he knows that Finn deserves. “Thank you. For rescuing me. Us. You’re my hero.” He cracks a half-hearted smile.

“You’re going to have to tell me what happened between you two, I think.” Finn doesn’t return the smile; he looks down, then steps away. “I don’t want to hear it right now. I’m tired, and I have a lot left to do. Going all the way out to that system set back my schedule.”

Poe’s face falls.

“Like I said.” Finn takes another step back, shrugs. “Dinner, soon. You need anything, call. Good to have you back.”

Before Poe can say anything else, Finn turns on his heel and leaves.

“Sorry to inconvenience you,” Poe mutters, eyes pricking with tears.

The room is sparse, clean, with warm colors and a bed that immediately calls to Poe. He kicks off his boots and rushes over to it, collapsing onto the soft surface and curling up on his side. Raen squirms around in his hands and licks his face as frustration finally comes to a head and hot tears gather on his eyelashes, slipping down his cheek.

When Poe opens his eyes, he knows immediately that he is not awake.

He sits up, blinking at the utter darkness that surrounds him. Although there’s no obvious light source, he can see his hands and legs just fine. For some reason, he’s wearing his orange flight suit.

Hux is here. He knows it, even before he stands up and starts to walk—picking a random direction and feeling the convincing sensation of his feet moving him through space, despite the complete lack of any outward signs of it. Everything is black, a flat void even emptier than space.

He hears a sigh.

“Hux?” He turns towards the sound, and there Hux is—sitting on the ground, his legs drawn up to his chest and arms looped around them, his greatcoat perched on his shoulders and spread out around him like a cape. His back is to Poe as Poe walks over to him, pausing to look down at him before sighing and taking a seat beside him. Poe runs a hand over his face, and sighs again.

“Hux. I’m sorry.”

Hux casts a glance aside at him, then shrugs. Though his uniform is immaculate, his face is drawn and pale, his hair falling over his eyes in a way that makes Poe want to reach out and tuck it behind his ear. Poe has no doubt that this is really Hux—not some figment of his own dreaming mind. He would be happier at this chance to speak to Hux, but Hux looks so _tired_. It just makes Poe’s heart ache.

“I told you it would be like this.” Hux lifts his head slightly to look out into the nothingness. “You didn’t believe me. You promised.”

“I know.” Poe’s throat burns. “Everything is just—so different than I imagined it would be. Different than I hoped, I guess.”

“That’s the problem with your hope.” Hux spits out the word. His lip curls and he turns his head until Poe can only see the tense line of his jaw. “When it curdles, it turns to poison.”

“No.” Poe shakes his head, and finally extends a hand, searching for his hand within the folds of that coat that Hux wears like armor and grasping it. Hux’s fingers are cold; it’s the only real sensation Poe can feel in this place. “I’m not giving up, and you can’t either.” He swallows past the lump in his throat, giving Hux’s limp hand a squeeze. “Hope is like the sun—“

“I’ve heard those words in your mind before, and I don’t care for them.” Hux doesn’t pull his hand away, though. Poe strokes Hux’s knuckles with his thumb and they sit in silence for a moment—or for some amount of time, however time passes in this place. Eventually Hux looks down at their hands, and shifts his grip so that he’s holding Poe’s hand more securely.

“This feels nice,” he says softly. “I’ve never just—held hands with someone, before you. Not since leaving Arkanis, in any case.” He closes his eyes. “I’ll miss this.”

“You don’t have to miss it.” Poe blinks back tears, relief at talking to Hux again, touching him again warring with the anguish of knowing he can’t do this so easily in the waking world. “We can have this again. We’ll figure it out. I’ll talk to Finn—“

“Stop.” Hux withdraws his hand then, folding it in his lap where Poe can’t reach it. “Your friend has every right to wish me dead. In his place—well.” A humorless laugh. “I already tried to execute him. I’ll be in prison until I die, Poe. Please prepare yourself for that. I can’t—“ A shaky inhale. “I can’t face what’s to come with you— _wanting_ so much, with you—refusing to accept what you can’t change, I—I hurt. For you.” Hux rubs his chest, looking troubled, and despite the tears that slip down Poe’s face he finds himself smiling.

“Hux, don’t you see? _That’s_ why I have hope for you. For us.” He takes Hux’s face gently in his hands, turns it until their eyes meet. “I’ll show them all who you really are. You’re not just some heartless killer. I know you think you are but you’re _not._ ” Poe presses their foreheads together and the contact sends a ripple through him. They both sigh, sagging into each other. “You’ve changed, Hux. You _are_ changing. You’re becoming the person you always could have been. Eventually, they’re going to see that. I’ll make them see it.”

“I hate this,” Hux breathes, his voice tremulous and edged with unshed tears. “I hate this feeling. I hate to hope for something I know I won’t have. I don’t know how you live like this.”

“One day at a time, buddy.” Poe thumbs away Hux’s tears, then slides his palms down so he can tilt Hux’s chin up and kiss him. It doesn’t feel quite right, somehow less than when they kiss in the real world, like there’s a thin cloth drawn between them. Poe’s eyebrows furrow as his lips move against Hux’s, searching for him, hungry for that sense of _rightness_ that eludes him. But Hux only seems to retreat further from his grasp, and Poe realizes he can feel less and less of him beneath his fingertips. Hux gasps, breaking away from the ghostly kiss and speaking breathlessly against him, so that Poe misses the memory of Hux’s warm breath on his skin.

“I think they’re waking me up.” Hux’s eyes are wide. “They want to do the procedure on my leg today. Poe, if I don’t—if they—“

“They’re not going to hurt you.” Poe grips Hux’s wrists, finding it hard to hold on to him. “I’ll come find you when you’re awake. Hux—don’t shut me out anymore, please.”

“I can’t.” Hux is shaking his head, and Poe doesn’t know what he means, and he tries to grab the back of Hux’s head to pull him forward one last time but suddenly he’s gone.


	24. Chapter 24

Poe wakes to the sound of the door whooshing open.

He shoots up, disoriented. Raen bleats and darts from beneath his arms. He can’t remember where he is or figure out how he got into a bed. He flails a bit when he tries to turn over, the blanket getting tangled up around his legs, and he scrambles for some sort of weapon.

“Whozat?” He blinks, the room’s lights coming up automatically, too bright. “Hux?”

A cascade of whoops and beeps has him rubbing furiously at his eyes and launching out of bed.

“BB! Oh, kriff, buddy.” Relief and joy flood him as the round droid’s familiar orange and white body rolls into view. Poe drops to his knees and opens his arms, and BB-8 rolls forward, bumping against his chest. Poe rubs his hands over the droid’s chassis and BB swivels to bump back and forth in his arms, their equivalent of returning the hug. “Maker, I missed you. How have you been?”

_ Bweep-woop. _

“Awww. I was worried about you too.” Poe drops his head, pressing his forehead to BB’s dome. “But I’m back now, no harm done.”

A series of disbelieving beeps tells him that he’s too skinny, and that BB-8 might not have a nose but even they can tell that Poe must smell awful. Poe winces, and chuckles.

“Yeah. Could really use a shower…”

He looks up, actually taking in the layout of his room for the first time. There’s a tiny refresher that might have just enough room for a shower, and a desk with a set of clothes neatly folded on top, along with what looks like a communicator nestled in the fabric. There’s also—

Kriff, Maker, great mother of Massassi,  _ food. _

“Hold that thought, BB.” Poe springs to his feet, hands reaching for the plate of bread and cheese and fruit— _ fruit!  _ He’d forgotten about fruit! He grabs a jogan and bites in, the burst of sweetness on his tongue blowing his eyes wide. 

Poe spends the next frantic moments stuffing as much food into his mouth as he can possibly chew, with hardly a pause for breath. BB-8 beeps concernedly behind him, swiveling around his feet, but Poe just shoos them off with the nudge of one toe and continues, quite frankly, gorging himself. He feels like he’s actually tasting something he’s eating for the first time in his life, and the variety of colors and textures and flavors is overwhelming. All too soon he’s cleared the platter, and then he realizes his mistake.

“Oh.” Poe puts a hand to his stomach and one to his mouth, and walks over to sit heavily on his bed. “Kriff. Yeah. Sorry, BB, you were right.”

He doesn’t sick up, thankfully, not sure if he could weather the embarrassment even if it was just in front of his droid. As he waits for the nausea to subside, Poe’s brain catches up with the events of the day before, and a little of his excitement at being reunited with BB-8 begins to fade. He has to get busy, today. No more of this wallowing, or being overwhelmed at simple things like the presence of other people. He has to make a plan.

“BB? I need your help with some stuff.”

BB-8 wobbles agreeably, their visual receptor blinking. Raen emerges from beneath the bed and takes a tentative step towards the droid as Poe tries to gather his thoughts, thinking of what he needs and how to phrase it so as not to alarm BB-8.

“I need to know…kriff, everything that’s happened since I left on that mission. This whole new government thing—all the boring legal stuff, too,” he adds, knowing that his droid is likely to skimp on the details that Poe typically wouldn’t bother with. “I’ve got a friend in trouble here, okay? And I need to know what I’m dealing with so I can help him. So we,” he gestures between himself and BB, “can help him. Sound good?”

_ Bweeeep, bip.  _ BB-8 swivels to look at Raen, rolling forward an inch or so. Raen shrinks back at first, but then extends his nose towards BB-8’s chassis and gives it a tentative sniff.

“Great. And, uh, yeah. I guess I need to get a shower. I can handle that.” Poe stands up, and suddenly remembers the clothes he’d arrived in are in a heap on the floor. He hardly even remembers stripping them off. Poe rifles through the sad little pile until his hands come upon two things he finds it absolutely imperative to save: one is Hux’s knife, still in its scabbard with the broken arm straps, and the other is the data stick.

He stares at this last for some time, caught in a moment of bitter reflection. Everything has gone so wrong since he’d picked it up, he almost wants to chuck it into an incinerator. But he’d gone to such lengths to keep it safe, and even though the data on it is surely useless now that the war is over (somehow, Poe can’t quite believe that), he feels it would be a mistake to get rid of it just yet. He goes to the desk, opens the top drawer and tucks the data stick and the knife away at the back.

“You think they’ll be safe there?” He asks BB, and gets a confident response. Yes, everything is safe here in Coda City, it’s really quite wonderful. Poe has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He goes to the refresher and finds that it’s just big enough for a toilet, a sink that folds down from a compartment in the wall, and a narrow shower. There’s a couple of towels sitting on top of the toilet tank, and unopened hygiene products in the shower. Poe strips off his underwear and pops the cap on the shampoo, inhaling the potent scent, something darkly herbal. Nice. He shakes his head. He doesn’t know why he can’t just seem to appreciate all of these things he’s suddenly being given—maybe it’s all just  _ too  _ nice, in a way that makes him suspicious that he’ll have to pay for it eventually.

He checks the bandage on the back of his hand, peeling it back and seeing that the bacta has done its job and that the knife wound is completely healed. He rubs the faint red line with one thumb, almost regretting that it’s all that’s left. Hux had done this to him, of course, and Poe supposes he’s a sick bastard for thinking that he’d rather have a dramatic scar, or the wound itself, than lose even one little piece of his time with Hux.

He fingers the bandage on his forehead, and turns to the mirror, stopping cold when he catches sight of himself. 

Poe hardly recognizes himself. What others have been telling him finally hits—he  _ looks  _ like someone who has been on starvation rations for weeks. His face is thin, his collarbones more prominent than he’s ever seen them. He’s always had definition to the muscles in his arms and chest, but now they seem tough and wiry, as stringy as that jerky they had eaten while stranded. His hair has grown down past his ears, and of course a short, thick beard has sprung up. He runs his fingers over it, having known it was there all along but now seeing it for the first time. His eyes look too big for his face.

Poe finds a shaving kit in the sink compartment, and gets to work. He’s preferred to go clean-shaven since he became a pilot, the beard too scratchy and awkward under his respiratory equipment. When he’s finished he feels a little more like himself, though he fingers his hair for a moment, wondering if he can get a hair cut in this fancy place. For now he supposes he can just tie it back. He’s been itching to get in the shower since he realized it was there.

His mind goes blissfully blank when he turns on the shower and the hot water strikes his chest. He hums deeply at the wonderful sensation of steaming-hot water striking his dirt-caked skin. Poe stands for a long time under the torrent, bending his head and letting the water soak into his hair, running over his scalp. When he finally starts to scrub himself, the water swirling down the drain turns nearly black.

“Gross,” Poe chuckles.

_ What is? _

Poe nearly slips.

“Hux?” He puts a hand on the wall to steady himself, heart rate rocketing up as he thinks this is his chance, whatever barrier Hux has put up between them is slipping, he just has to convince Hux to talk to him—

_ Hux! Hux? Can you hear me? Please don’t— _

Poe can feel Hux, but it’s muddled, almost makes Poe groggy when he tries to tangle himself up in Hux’s thoughts. His vision blurs and Poe blinks rapidly. He loses the thread of their connection and his heart sinks as he feels the bond closing off again, his awareness of Hux dwindling down to the faintest whisper of a presence in his mind.

_ Don’t go. _

It’s a last, desperate plea, that falls on deaf ears. 

Poe slams his fist into the wall.

“ _ Fuck! _ ” 

Poe completes the rest of his wash and steps out of the shower so quickly he nearly slips on the tile floor. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he uses another to rub furiously at his hair, and he’s still dripping wet when he puts on the new clothes that had been provided for him. He barely has the wherewithal to register that they fit well, are soft and new, in muted shades of beige. A belt and a pair of brown boots completes the outfit, and then Poe is looking frantically around the room, his brain stalling as he feels like he needs to grab a weapon but there are, of course, none to be found. None except for Hux’s knife, and that feels safer stashed away in the desk. And what would he need a weapon for, anyway?

He makes a frustrated sound, mostly at himself. He doesn’t know why he can’t seem to grasp that the territory has changed, that his routine on that moon is no longer relevant. Poe jams his finger at the keypad and the door slides open, and then he’s off, jogging towards the medbay.

Despite his determination yesterday to memorize the route back to Hux, Poe somehow takes two wrong turns before finally getting the right corridor. Everything looks the kriffing same here, all smooth, flawless walls in a color that Poe is starting to think looks a lot less inoffensively tan and a lot more sickly yellow the longer he’s here. This is a horrible fucking place, he’s long since decided, by the time he rounds the sweeping curve of the corridor and the medical wing comes into sight.

He slows his jog, and has to take a second to tamp down a surge of further frustration when he sees that—of kriffing  _ course _ —the door is guarded by two former stormtroopers.

He plasters on a smile. He remembers how to charm people, right? That used to be one of his defining qualities, before he’d spent a month marooned with the galaxy’s least charm-able man.

“Hey!” He lifts a hand in an affable wave, and one of the troopers looks at him. With a sinking feeling he realizes it’s Latch, the woman who seems to take especial joy in Hux’s prisoner status. She has a blocky, angular face, and probably weighs twice as much as Poe in his current condition, all of it muscle of course. “Don’t mind me, guys. Just visiting.” He doesn’t break his rolling stride, aiming for the door between the two stationed guards—until an arm comes swiftly down to block his progress.

“No visitors,” Latch says, her eyes a flat, unimpressed brown. 

“Well, actually, I say that I’m visiting but—“ Poe affects an embarrassed wince. “Really I do need to see the doctor, it’s just a—bit of an embarrassing situation, so I’d be grateful if we kept it between us.”

“If you need medical assistance, return to your room and issue a request through your provided communication device. A doctor will be on call to assist you shortly.”

“Yeah, well, that’d be great but I feel like this might get a bit messy, and I’d prefer not to have it in my room. The smell, you know.”

Latch returns her gaze to the far wall.

“My communicator is broken.”

Latch doesn’t seem to even hear him.

“I’m giving birth!” Poe shouts, putting a hand on his hip and using the other to gesture in a broad sweep to his nether regions. “I’m only half-human and if you don’t want to become intimately acquainted with my species’ birth process—which, I assure you, involves various forms of goo, and—and  _ tentacles _ , there  _ will  _ be tentacles!—then you’ll let me pass right now!”

“Nice try,” Latch bares her teeth at him, and Poe gets the impression that she does get a sort of feral pleasure from all this.

“Kriff this,” Poe says, and lunges for the door. 

It’s an embarrassingly short tussle. The other trooper doesn’t even look their way as Latch hauls him back and twists his arms around behind his back. Poe thrashes, and only succeeds in pulling something in his shoulder.

“Fine! Break my fucking arms, why don’t you, maybe then you’ll let me in!”

“Quip,” Latch addresses her companion calmly, “Call for backup to take my place here while I escort Mr. Dameron to his room.”

“Oh, fuck  _ off _ , you fucking unwrapped fascist piece of—“

“Poe!”   
  


“Finn,” Poe breathes out a sigh of relief. Finn is walking rapidly down the hallway towards them. His cape is missing, the lines of his uniform looking slightly ruffled at the edges. He has a haggard look in his eyes that makes Poe wonder if he’s slept since they last spoke. “Tell your people to let me through, please. I need to make sure he’s okay.”

“Stand down, Latch.” Finn claps her on the shoulder and Latch stiffens. Her eyes dart from Poe to Finn, the twist of her mouth clearly displeased; but after only a brief hesitation she lets go of Poe and steps back into formation beside the door. Poe rotates his shoulder, shooting her a triumphant glare.

Then Finn puts his hands on Poe’s arms and starts guiding him away from the door.

“Listen, you probably don’t want to believe me,” he says, low and quiet so Latch and Quip would have to struggle to hear him--though both of them are staring determinedly off into the middle distance like a couple of good soldiers. “But they’re here for his protection, alright?”

“I just want to see him.” Poe lets himself be shepherded away from the door, though. He doesn’t want to fight with Finn. 

“He’s in surgery. I got the notification from Avonda--” Finn glances down at something on his wrist, eyebrows shooting up, “Kriff, it’s already been an hour? Yeah, an hour ago.”

“So he’s--” Poe’s eyebrows knit together. Something in him turns warm and soft at the realization--Hux had reached out to him when he was already under anesthesia. Suddenly, their connection during the night before floods back to him. The bond is still active, but only when one or both of them are dreaming.

Finn doesn’t know any of that, but he’s nodding anyway.

“He’s being taken care of. Even though he’s a prisoner we’re going to treat him right, keep him safe. Do the exact opposite of what he’d do in our place.”

Poe gives a weak smile. Finn seems so  _ earnest _ , like he really believes he’s doing the right thing. And maybe he is--Poe doesn’t know, wishes he still felt that burning sense of righteousness that had connected everyone in the Resistance--

And, he knows now, everyone in the First Order, too.

“Finn, I need to talk to you.” Poe looks down at the floor, blinking back the sudden threat of tears. “I know you’re busy, but--”

“I’m never too busy for you. Poe.” Finn’s hands pulse on his arms. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was just--frustrated, but that’s not your fault, it’s all of this--” He waves a hand. “Nevermind. It’s not important. I just used my job as an excuse because I thought--honestly, I thought I was just making everything worse. That you needed some time to yourself just to process all of this.”

“I--”

The words get tangled up inside his mind and all Poe can think is,  _ I need help.  _

Poe can’t help but think that Hux would have understood. He and Finn are friends, but in the grand scheme of things they haven’t known each other that long. And Hux knows him in a way no one else ever had. He shrugs helplessly, wishing he could fling his emotions at Finn and have the other man simply understand him. Poe doesn’t need to be left alone to spiral into his thoughts, though it isn’t unreasonable for Finn to think that some solitude would help when he doesn’t have all the information, doesn’t know where Poe’s anxieties stem from.

“C’mon.” Finn claps his shoulder. “I know somewhere we can talk.”

He leads Poe down the winding corridors, passing door upon door, most of them closed. Some are open, though, and Poe catches glimpses of daily life in the Third Republic headquarters--a mess hall here, a conference room there. People mill about, enough of them to make the space feel lived-in but not all crammed together like they had been in the Resistance, stuffing too many people into the reduced living quarters of mostly-defunct bases. Everyone is dressed in the same neat style of clothing, what Poe assumes must have been requisitioned from their hosts here on Ruark. The ratio of humans to nonhumans is a bit jarring given their Resistance roots--but then Poe realizes that the influx of humans is almost entirely thanks to the massive influx of former stormtroopers.

“In here.” Finn gestures and a door slides open, revealing a small lounge area. There’s a couch and a low table, a few scattered chairs, a side table with a coffee machine and cabinets that probably hold cups and napkins and the like. Poe pauses at the threshold, struck by how  _ normal  _ everything is. Or perhaps that isn’t the right word; he struggles to gain a hold on this feeling, like everything around him is so commonplace that it seems suspicious, like the world is trying too hard. He tries to convince himself that there’s nothing sinister about a coffee station or a beige couch, but in the end they bring him no comfort, not when he still longs for the warm circle of Hux’s arms while the wind howls outside their cave.

Eventually, Poe’s feet move and carry him to the couch where he sits next to Finn, leaving a cushion between them. He clasps his hands between his knees, twisting them together and jiggling his leg. He’s  _ nervous _ , and he can’t say why. It’s just this lingering worry eating at him, making him want to clutch at his chest because it feels like there’s something there, heavy and jagged.

“You ate, right?” Finn sinks into the couch like it’s the first time he’s sat down in days. Poe nods, but throws a look at Finn.

“Why do I feel like I should be asking you the same question?”

Finn blows out a breath that seems to deflate him, nodding. He swipes a hand over his face, leaves it over his mouth for a moment and murmurs from behind his hand.

“I’m alright. It’s a lot but it’s--it’s good.” He shrugs with one shoulder, dropping the hand. Poe can tell his smile is a little forced, but he doesn’t blame Finn for it. There’s tension in the room, an odd energy that he’s never felt with his friend before. Like they’re two firing mechanisms that are misaligned, and Poe knows he’s the one that jumped the track. “I’ll tell you about it later. Right now I want to hear what’s going on with you. I’m worried about you, Poe.”

“It’s--also a lot.” Poe takes a deep breath, and starts to tell Finn everything, intending to start with the bond between him and Hux. “Hux and I, we--”

His jaw locks.

Poe blinks, his mouth still open.

“Yeah?” Finn looks wary, but still prompts Poe to continue, and Poe would but--

He can’t. Physically, he cannot force the words past his lips.

“I--he--” Poe gestures with a hand, frustration building as he realizes how well and truly fucked he is. He lets out a breathy laugh, a hysterical note to it. “Maker. I literally can’t say it.”

“I think I can guess.” Finn looks at the ground and Poe can see his discomfort in the way he shifts on the couch, almost angling himself away from Poe. “I mean, you two were there alone together for a whole month. I--I saw the cave, everything you had done to survive. You must have come to rely on each other.”

“He saved my life, Finn.” Poe reaches out then, but his hand falls short of touching Finn. “At first we were just trying to survive, but so much happened, and I can’t tell you about a big part of it because he won’t let me.”

“Won’t let you? What do you mean? It’s not like he’s here.”

“It’s--” Poe was going to say ‘Force stuff’ but even that falls under the command Hux has put over him. He shakes his head, eyes earnest, pleading with Finn to somehow read his mind. “Rey would understand.”

“Huh. Okay,” Finn says slowly. “She’s on her way here, by the way. Probably arriving sometime tomorrow.” He moves the fingers of one hand, rubbing his thumb against the pads of his fingers. “So he saved your life, huh? So you feel like you owe him for that?”

“No. It’s not like that, it’s--it’s more.” 

“Just spit it out, Poe.”

And Poe opens his mouth to say that he can’t, that there’s something stopping him from telling Finn the most important part, but just then he realizes exactly what he needs to say. The truth of it that has been lying curled up inside of him like a sleepy mammal, sated and warm and not needing to be verbalized until just this moment when it yawns and lifts its head and comes pouring forth from between Poe’s stammering lips, unlocking his tongue in a rush of relief.

“I love him.” 

The confession is met with dead silence.

Poe’s head is spinning and he hears himself laughing, like he’s listening to someone else. And there are tears in his eyes but he can’t tell what they are there for or when they appeared. All he knows is a dizzying sense of relief. He curls his hands into fists, presses his knuckles into his thighs and leans forward.

“I love him, Finn, and I--” His chest hiccups, in a laugh or a sob. Either way there are tears blurring his vision. “I can’t help it, and I’m not ashamed of it, and you can hate me for it but it’s real.”

The relief that had flooded him at first is gone and Poe feels like he’s tightening up, like a dried-out plant curling in on itself. The room presses down on him, all of Ruark and the Third Republic something hostile. He wants to burrow into the couch cushions and hide. He’s not strong enough to face all of this alone and his love for Hux--

His  _ love _ , his kriffing love, he must have known it for some time now but hadn’t let himself face it--

And now it’s there inside of him, warm and glowing and fragile and anathema to everything Poe has ever known and Poe curls up around it, wrapping his arms around his chest like he can protect it.

Warm hands stop him from collapsing onto the couch. They push him back, holding him up as Poe comes apart. And then, suddenly, Finn is there--the rest of him, Poe realizes belatedly that the hands belong to Finn and so do the arms wrapping around him and the body that’s suddenly crushed against him in a hug.

Poe buries his face in Finn’s chest, and lets his hysterical laughter dissolve into tears.

“It’s okay.” Finn’s deep voice is pitched in a soothing lilt. “I don’t hate you, man, of course I don’t.”

“I know what he’s done.” Poe clutches at Finn’s shirt. “I know, and I love him anyway.”

“You have a big heart.” 

“So does he, in a way.” Poe takes a few deep breaths, feeling more in control now that the tension between him and Finn has disappeared. “He wants to protect me.” Poe winces at the sound of his own voice--thick with tears, those he’d stained Finn’s shirt with and those he’s holding back. “Even now, he just--he doesn’t know what he’s doing.” A tortured little laugh bubbles up, born of equal parts fondness and sorrow at the thought of Hux fumbling his way through this galaxy, never knowing what it was to have someone protect him and therefore only guessing at what he must do to protect Poe. “I can’t let you guys hurt him. And I can’t--Finn, what am I going to do? Just let him rot away in a cell? I can’t. I can’t.”

Finn doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t withdraw, either. And Poe feels it, for the first time since they were rescued from that moon--

Hope.

He doesn’t look up at Finn, instead pressing his ear to his chest, listening to the beat of his friend’s heart.

“I’ll do anything I have to to get him out of there. Finn, if your stormtroopers can join the Third Republic, why can’t he?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Kriff that. There has to be a way. There’s no reason to lock him up, he’s not going to hurt anyone else. He can’t, not with the First Order gone! And he doesn’t want to. I promise, he’s not a threat.”

Finn releases a long, weary sigh. He loosens his grip on Poe, and reluctantly Poe sits up. He should probably be ashamed that his friend had to hold him like a child while he cried, but he’s never really been embarrassed by showing his emotions. He’s worn his heart on his sleeve his entire life, and for the most part it’s rewarded him. And he does feel marginally better, now.

Finn doesn’t hate him. And that’s good for something, even if it hasn’t diverted Hux’s future from a prison cell just yet.

“Poe, there are...a lot of moving parts, here.” Finn chews on his lip. “For one, Hux wasn’t a stormtrooper. He wasn’t just following orders and he wasn’t conditioned, he was completely in control of the decisions he made when he--you know.”

“He wasn’t, though. You don’t know him like I do. You don’t know what he’s been through.”

“And that’s the thing, Poe. It’s not up to me. Even if I agreed with you, there’s still Leia, and Undeb-Seg. Leia might listen to you because of everything with Ben--”

“Ben?” Poe blinks. “Ben Solo?”

“--But Undeb-Seg is the real obstacle here. And besides that, my stormtroopers--my Guard, I mean. They won’t want to see Hux just walking around like that. He was responsible for a lot of how our lives were run. Honestly, Poe, I don’t want to see you hurt so I wish I had something else to tell you.” His smile is pained, head tilting to the side. “Personally, I hate the guy. He wanted me dead, me and Rose both.”

“I know,” Poe whispers. He wishes it wasn’t true but he won’t run from it. He holds back an apology, both because he never wants to apologize for how he feels about Hux and because he thinks an apology won’t do much against the memory of Hux ordering the execution of the woman Finn loves.

Finn just shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, even though Poe knows it’s not that easy to dismiss.

“But my personal feelings on Hux aside--there’s no way to release him right now.”

Finn’s voice is firm and for a moment Poe’s heart falls, quailing at the idea that he had already failed Hux--until the last words register.

And hope stirs within him again, but it comes with a slick coating of fear, like a film of oil over water.

“What do you mean, ‘right now’?”

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this just yet, but--the First Order?”

Poe nods.

“It isn’t gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and I'm sorry I've lacked the spoons recently to respond. <3 Also sorry for the delay, and if this chapter disappoints in terms of quality. I just couldn't find my writing groove but I didn't want to leave the last chapter hanging any longer.


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